


Harry Potter and the Slytherin's Hair

by iulia_linnea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iulia_linnea/pseuds/iulia_linnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"[E]ven great wizards is not being good at everything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Hair of Hers

**Author's Note:**

> Written in May 2005, this fic features Girl!Blaise.

That Blaise Zabini had been made a Slytherin had not been a concern to Harry Potter when he was waiting to discover what his own house would be. While a First Year, he had not paid much attention to the skinny auburn-haired girl. In Second Year, Zabini's hair seemed to have gotten much longer, Harry noticed, but beyond that, he did not pay her much attention. He did not remember seeing much of her at all, Third Year, but one night coming out of the Hogwarts' kitchens as Blaise was going in, that hair of hers, he decided, was distracting. Fourth Year, he sometimes caught a glimpse of her, her hair whipping in the wind, as he rushed by the Slytherin bleachers during Quidditch games. The bronze sunglasses she wore attracting him almost as did the Golden Snitch. In Fifth Year, Cho Chang was in his thoughts a great deal, but Harry found himself comparing the sheen of Blaise's hair to the gloss of Cho's. It did not occur to him at the time that he had a "thing" for girls with long hair, or that he compared those girls to Zabini. In Sixth Year, a lonely, frightening time for Harry, he spent a lot of time in the Owlery and occasionally would find Blaise there, as well, her glorious—for he had decided that was the only true way to describe her tresses, which were redolent of bergamot and something indescribable—hair flowing over her shoulders to frame her smooth, pretty face. They would murmur together about general things, and then pretend as though they had never seen each other before when they encountered each other in the corridors; Gryffindors and Slytherins did not mix in public, even if they wanted to. But in Seventh Year, as Harry caught Blaise's rich brown flashing eyes peeking out at him through her long curtain of hair, he finally admitted to himself that "mixing" with the girl seemed like an excellent idea.

"Are you mad?" Ron demanded, after Harry confessed his crush. "She's a Slytherin!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You say that as if Zabini's a Death Eater."

"Well, she _could_ be."

"She's _not_ ," Harry said emphatically, his cheeks growing hot.

"How d'you know, mate? Have you asked her?"

"Prat," Hermione muttered, shoving her boyfriend playfully.

The three Gryffindors were walking into Hogsmeade on a brisk but sunny morning, the first Hogsmeade Weekend of the term, and Harry had decided to say something about his . . . interest in Blaise before asking the girl out properly. _I should never have said anything_.

"I'm not—really, mate, Blaise Zabini? Why not Gi—ow!" Ron exclaimed, as Hermione punched him. "Well, why _not_ Ginny?"

"Because she's not interested in me," Harry said cautiously, hoping that Ron would not push the issue.

"She's fancied you forever! Just _ask_ her. She'd go out with you."

"No, Ron, she wouldn't," Hermione replied after exchanging an amused glance with Harry. "She's involved with someone else."

"What? She never said anything about it."

"Well, she wants her privacy."

"Harry, did you know that my baby sister was dating someone new?"

"Um . . . Hermione?"

The witch sighed. "Ron, Ginny's interested in a Slytherin, too."

_Here we go_ , Harry thought, moving quickly away from Ron as the other wizard's arms flung out in surprise.

" _What_? Who? I'll _kill_ him. Who—it's _Malfoy_ , isn't it? Oh, Merlin! Mum'll— _who_?"

"Oh, it's not Malfoy," Harry said, biting his lower lip to keep from laughing.

"Well?" Ron demanded again of Hermione.

"I'm not really sup—"

"WHO?"

"Millicent Bulstrode, if you must know," Hermione replied, pursing her lips into a tight, worried line.

Ron's face reddened in outrage, and Harry thought the boy would yell again, but then he burst out laughing.

"Oh, good . . . one! You . . . had . . . me worried there, for a moment! Right, my baby sister's going to go out with a great hulking girl like Bulstrode!"

"With a _girl_ like Bulstrode," Hermione said, placing her hands on her hips and staring up at her boyfriend, waiting for the realization to dawn on him.

"You're having me on, aren't you? Isn't she, Harry?"

"Afraid not."

"Wha—rea—no!"

"Look Ron, Ginny _likes_ Millicent, and I think you should try to understand."

"And my vote's for Bulstrode if you should try to kill her," Harry added, much to Hermione's amusement.

" _Everyone's_ gone mad—utterly, raving mad—this _can't_ be true!"

Ron was still muttering about it when they entered the Three Broomsticks and saw the youngest Weasley chatting over butterbeers with Bulstrode.

"Excuse me."

"Should we stop him?" Hermione asked.

"Should you have _told_ him?"

"Well, he did need to be prepared, and I knew she'd be meeting her girlfriend here, so—"

"It's _that_ serious?"

"I'm afraid so," Hermione replied, grinning at Harry as they slid into a booth near the back of the pub. "Oh, look—there's Zabini joining them."

Harry blushed and looked down at his hands.

"You could always ask her to join _us_."

Before Harry could respond, Ron stormed over to the table. "Apparently," he said, sliding into the booth next to Hermione, "I'm not welcome at my sister's friends' table!"

"Well, what did you expect? You were being an ass."

"Hermione, I was being her big—"

"Brother," Harry finished for him.

"That's right."

But it was not all right, not really, because Harry could not think of anything but the way Blaise had her hair: it was braided and coiled upon her head like a burnished crown, and he wanted to see it down. He completely missed what his friends were saying as he stared across the pub at the girl, watching how animated she seemed as she laughed at something Ginny said, and then starting in mortification as Millicent turned and stared back at him. 

_Don't turn around_ , he prayed.

Blaise did not.

That, Harry decided, made it worse. What made it truly _awful_ , however, was when Bulstrode rose from her table and walked to his.

"Potter, you checking out my girl?"

"What?" Ron spluttered, spitting butterbeer over the table.

"Nice one, Weasley," Millicent said in a dismissive way. "Potter?"

"N—no, of course not."

"Good. It wouldn't surprise me if you were, of course, now that she's not interested," the Slytherin said, before turning on her heel and joining Ginny and Blaise at the exit.

"She's got some nerve," Ron said.

"It was a distraction," Hermione observed, as Harry held up a folded piece of parchment.

"She tossed it to me."

"Well, what does it—"

"Excuse me," Harry interrupted, heading toward the loo.

"—say?" Hermione finished.

Ron laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Harry getting notes from Bulstrode, from a Slytherin—that's funny."

"I don't think it was from Millicent, Ron."

In the gents loo, Harry carefully unfolded the note and read: 

"9:00 o'clock. The Owlery."

"Millicent wants me to meet her in the Owlery?"

He folded the note and put it in his pocket, and then went to rejoin his friends. "Just a death threat," he lied. "You know, in case I look at Ginny again."

Ron snorted. "Typical Slytherin tactic."

Later that night, Harry was able to slip out of the dormitory under the pretext—not so far-fetched now that he was taking Advanced Potions—of going to the library. He arrived at the Owlery at eight-thirty, and spent some time stroking Hedwig's feathers and feeding her treats.

"Who's your friend?" he asked his familiar, for she was sitting on a rod near an unfamiliar gray owl, who was turning its head all the way around to her apparent delight. "You ruffle your feathers at him that way, and he'll get the wrong idea."

"Oh, I think Silvio has the right one, not being as dense as some," Blaise's soft voice spoke behind him.

"You're not Milli—Bulstrode," Harry said, turning.

"No, I'm not. It's good to see that you kept up with those mental-sharpening exercises of yours over the summer," Blaise replied, moving to greet her owl.

" _Mental-sharpening exercises_ ," Harry thought, suddenly suspicious. _But there's no way she could know about my Occlumency lessons unless Snape told her, and he_ —

"Perhaps you didn't. My mistake," the girl said quickly, though not sharply.

"Oh, you were _insulting_ me."

"And you're relieved?"

"No, well, I mean—look, why are you here? I'm supposed to be meeting, I mean . . . ."

"You're supposed to be meeting _me_ , Potter. I asked Millicent to pass you that note."

Harry gawked. "Y—you did? Why?"

"I wanted to see you, you git," Blaise replied, turning away to feed Silvio—and then Hedwig—treats.

"Oh." _Is she blushing_? _She's blushing. Am I blushing_?

"You're blushing, you know."

"You're not even looking at me. How'd'you know?"

Blaise turned and regarded Harry, sweeping her gaze up and down his body in a speaking way that made him relieved he had worn his robes. "You always blush when you look at me."

"I—" _I do, don't I. God, she's pretty_. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" Blaise continued, moving her hands to fiddle with something in her pockets. 

"Sure."

"Well, you've been looking at me for a long time, and I want to know why."

"You want to know why I look at you?"

"Very good, Potter. You can hear clearly," Blaise said, taking a step toward the boy.

"Yeah, so I can," Harry replied, swallowing hard and forcing himself not to take a step backward. "Um, Za—Blaise?"

"Yes, Po—Harry?" she mocked.

She was so close to him now that he could feel the soft press of her breasts against his chest, which made thinking a near impossibility. "I . . . I just . . ." _really like looking at your hair_.

"You just _what_?" the girl whispered against his lips.

Harry thought he might pass out from the sensation of warm breath against his mouth, from the dark gaze that met his exactly. _Oh. We're the same height, aren't we_? he asked himself, clenching his fists to steady himself. "Ijustwantedtoknowwhyyouputyourhairup," he said in a nervous rush, jumping as his lips lightly grazed hers.

"You what?" Blaise asked, sounding slightly vexed and taking one step back.

"Don't—I mean, you don't have to move—I like having you, I mean, it was nice, you standing where you were." _Idiot, idiot, idiot_!

"Potter, do you fancy me?"

"I like your hair," Harry said, hoping she would understand.

"You like my hair," the girl repeated, a disgusted expression on her face. My hair, not me? You've been staring at me because you. Like. My. Hair."

"Your breasts felt nice, too." _NO_! _You did NOT just say that_!

"Millicent was right. You _are_ an idiot," Blaise said, turning on her heel and stalking off.

"Damn it!" Harry yelled, causing several owls to hoot at him in protest. "Sorry you lot, I just—damn it," he said more quietly, kicking at the feathers scattered across the floor. "Why am I such an idiot? What the hell is the matter with me?"

Stepping out of the shadows on the far side of the room, Severus Snape answered, "If we knew that, we'd be half-way toward curing adolescence altogether."

"Professor!"

"Yes?"

"I didn't see you there."

"Obviously. That is for the best, it is to be assumed. Really, Potter, 'Your breasts felt nice, too'? You _are_ an idiot."

"What do _you_ know about it?" Harry said before he could reign in his insolence. _Shit. Shit_. Shit. _Shit_!

"Five points from Gryffindor for rudeness to a professor, Potter, and five more for being so ridiculous in the face of the fairer sex."

"You can't take points for that!"

"I believe I just did. Be thankful that I did not take points for your having failed to take advantage of such a splendid opportunity."

"Wh—what opportunity—Sir?"

Snape sighed. "How is it possible that _you_ have no idea what _almost_ just happened here?"

"Why are you being nice to me?"

"'Nice', Potter? Reviewing our discussion thus far, I see no evidence of _niceness_ on my part. I am merely attempting to look out for one of my Slytherins, one of my evidently _misguided_ Slytherins who appears to fancy you."

"Blaise fancies me?"

"My, you truly are _not_ your father, are you?"

Harry's jaw tightened. "You promised not to talk about my dad anymore."

Snape sighed. "True. I did. I believe that I regret my display of gratitude toward you, but no matter. You deflected Pettigrew's hex, and I promised not to speak of your father. I apologize."

Harry gaped at the man.

"Do not look so shocked, boy. It should be clear enough to you by now that I honor my word."

"You just—"

"The habit of years cannot be altered in a matter of months, Potter, and I did apologize."

"Fine. Yes, you apologized. Hey! I'm dreaming, that's why I was such an idiot," Harry said hopefully.

Snape closed the distance between them and pinched him.

"Ow!"

"You are _not_ dreaming. You _did_ just make a complete fool of yourself. Welcome to the rest of your life as far as matters of the . . . heart are concerned. Women are difficult, and you, apparently, are sadly lacking in even a rudimentary understanding of them."

"She doesn't fancy me."

"She does, and if you cannot bring yourself to form coherent sentences in her presence, you will meet Lord Voldemort a virgin, and most likely die one, as well."

"Thanks for that," Harry said, flushing. "And who says I'm a—"

"Spare me your adolescent posturing, boy. Do you want my assistance, or don't you?"

"You're offering to help me?"

Snape raised a pointed eyebrow at him.

"But why?"

"Because Miss Zabini has shown no interest in any other boy, Potter. As much as it pains me to admit it, she has fixed upon you as the object of her desires. I expect that once she . . . gets to know you better, she will realize her folly and move on."

"Great," Harry muttered. "You're just looking to 'help' me humiliate myself again. I should have known."

"Typical Gryffindor pessimism," Snape said, shaking his head. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, has it not occurred to you that I am simply looking to pass on the benefit of my wisdom to you because—"

"You think I'm going to die."

"No. Because I am attempting to honor my _other_ promise to you."

"What?"

"Do you not remember our conversation in the wake of the most recent Death Eater attack?"

"Sure I do. You—oh—you said you'd stop being such a bastard."

"No, I said that I would to treat you with more respect, given the fact that we are constantly saving each other's lives, and you—how did you put it? Ah, yes—felt you deserved to be treated like a man instead of a child. If you still wish it, one _man_ to another," Snape continued, raising a sardonic eyebrow, "I am in a position to offer advice that might assist you in _properly_ wooing a witch."

"Not to be . . . rude, but . . . ."

"Potter, did it not seem odd to you that Madame Rosmerta was . . . as relieved as she was to find me well after the recent incident?"

Harry considered this question. After Pettigrew had tried to kill the professor in front of the Three Broomsticks, the publican had cried over Snape's unconscious body until Hermione had proved to the older woman that he was not, in fact, dead.

"You and Ro—Madame _Rosmerta_?"

"Yes, Potter, for some time now."

"Woah. I had no idea," Harry said, his admiration of Snape's conquest evident in his tone.

"Of course you did not. It's called 'discretion', something of which you are almost entirely ignorant."

"You know," Harry replied, leaning against one of the perches, "insulting me wasn't part of our deal."

"Then attempt not to leave yourself open to it. Again, do you wish my assistance, or don't you?"

"This is weird, Sir, if you'll forgive me for saying so—scratch that—it _is_ weird, even if you don't."

One corner of the Potions master's mouth twitched, but he made no other response.

"Yeah, sure—I mean, yes—if you have anything relevant and not insulting to suggest, I'd like to hear it."

"It's rather simple, Potter. The next time a young woman is pressing herself against you and breathing into your mouth, kiss her. The next time a young woman asks you why you are watching her, tell her that she is beautiful—not her parts, but she, herself—do you think you can follow these instructions?"

"Is . . . is that how you—"

"Mr. Potter, my relationship with Madame Rosmerta is none of your affair. You will keep it to yourself, and, as far as _how_ it began, you are not yet ready for Snape's Advanced Wooing Techniques."

Harry chuckled in embarrassment. "I suppose not. But she's mad at me, now. How do I—"

"You'll have to figure that one out on your own. If I told you everything, how would you learn?" Snape said, walking to the Owlery's exit. Good night, Mr. Potter, and good luck."

"Thanks," the boy muttered, looking at Hedwig and Silvio, who both seemed quite content in each other's company and were grooming each other in a companionable sort of way. "You two behave," he said, as he began walking back to the Gryffindor dormitory.

Hedwig and Silvio ignored him.


	2. That Mouth of His

And so did Blaise in the following days. In fact, she did more than ignore Harry: she made a point of avoiding him, swooping out of the library if he entered it, stalking back to her Potions' worktable if he came anywhere near her while she was retrieving supplies from the ingredient cabinet, and never once looking from the Slytherin table to his own at meals to catch his eye as she had been wont to do in the past. It was maddening.

 _I just told her I liked her hair. Why'd she have to get so chuffed about it_? he asked himself, playing with his food one night a few days later during dinner. _Snape's wrong. Blaise never_ did _like me_.

"Harry," Ginny said, throwing herself down beside him. "What did you do to Zabini?"

"What do you mean?"

"She looks miserable. Millicent says that she's stopped talking to everyone again."

"'Again'? When wasn't she talking to people?"

"You didn't know? Her favorite uncle was killed two years ago on a mission, and she stopped talking for six months."

"What sort of mission?"

"Giancarlo Zabini was an Auror. He was in Ireland supervising some curse-breakers who were trying to stop the trade of cursed artifacts stolen from old burial mounds, when one of the workers was possessed by a spirit. He was run through with one of the swords in the weapons cache."

"Oh, God. That's _terrible_."

"Yeah, awful. What have you done?"

"Who says I did anything?" Harry groused.

"Millicent. She says that you were all Blaise talked about until a few days ago. What did you do?" Ginny pressed.

They were sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table, and not many people remained in the Great Hall, but Harry looked around and decided that there were enough still present to make him uncomfortable talking about Blaise. "Look, could we move this conversation?"

"Why? No one's listening."

"Ginny."

"Harry. Really, you can tell me. Perhaps I can help."

"You mean, perhaps you can find something out to tell Millicent."

Ginny's face changed from friendly concern to horrified outrage almost too quickly to register. "You're a horrid prat, Potter! How dare you accuse me of—"

"Miss Weasley, kindly refrain from shrieking in the Great Hall; this is not a Quidditch match," Snape said, descending upon them from the High Table.

"Yes, Sir."

"If you've finished your meal, go about your business."

With a huff, Ginny stormed off.

"Th—thanks, Sir."

"Potter, you are the most unfortunate mess with witches it has ever been my misfortune to witness."

"I—" Harry began to say angrily, but then thought the better of it. "I know, Sir."

"Miss Zabini appears to be distraught."

"I know, Sir."

"Well? What are you going to do about it, boy?"

"What can I do?" he demanded angrily. "I didn't mean to hurt her feelings, and she won't even _look_ at me, now!"

" _Make_ her look at you, Potter," Snape ordered, striding off without another word.

"Thanks for the help."

In lieu of returning to the dormitory and running into Ginny, Harry took himself to the Owlery where he found Hedwig and Silvio hooting at each other. The female owl seemed disgruntled when Harry attempted to greet her, ruffling her feathers at him and turning her back. Silvio turned his head around at him.

"Show off," Harry muttered, settling himself down in one of the wide windowsills and glaring out over the moonlit grounds. _How did I miss that Blaise's uncle died_? _She must have been close to him for her to have stopped talking for six months_ , he thought, a pang of sadness ringing through him as his musings put him in mind of Sirius' death. I wish . . . . "No, best not think about it," he told himself, not for the first time. "What am I going to do?"

Harry liked Blaise, liked her a lot, but it seemed odd to him that the girl might like _him_ so much that she would stop speaking. He decided that it had to be something else, and further, that he was going to find out what it was and put an end to it.

"If I do that, she'll have to forgive me," he told himself, pushing off of the sill to go to Hedwig again. 

As he approached her perch, his foot slid through the feathers on the floor and nudged something, something that glinted in the dim light as he examined it. 

"What's this?" he asked, picking up the object.

It was a heavy golden piece of jewelry with a hinge; the gold twisted and ended in two golden, head-shaped terminals into which had been set blue cabochons for eyes and a mouth for each serpent-like head, and it was big enough that Harry gleaned it was meant to be worn around the neck. He remembered Blaise having been fiddling with something in her pocket the other day, and realized that the object must belong to her.

"Crap! No wonder she's been so upset. This must have belonged to her uncle," Harry said, carefully pocketing it and returning to the dormitory.

Hermione was sitting at one of the tables doing homework.

"Where's Ron?" he asked.

"Why should I know?" she shot back.

Harry repressed a grin. "Is he still being an ass about Ginny?"

"Yes."

Harry sat down and pulled the neck-thing out of his pocket. "What's thi—"

"A Celtic torc!" his friend exclaimed, snatching it from him. "Where'd you get this?"

"A Celtic what?"

"Torc. It's sort of like ancient barbarian jewelry. Where'd you find it?"

"In the Owlery. I think it's Blaise's. I think it was her uncle's."

"Oh, well, that would explain it," Hermione said, handing the torc back to Harry. "Wasn't he a curse-breaker?"

"Um, an Auror, actually. He was supervising curse-breakers when he died."

"Harry, you should probably take this to her right away."

"I can't just go wandering into the dungeons. Besides, I don't know the password to the Slytherin dorms."

"Ginny does."

Harry looked around. "Ginny's not here, is she?"

Hermione blushed.

"Right. She knows the password. Look, don't say anything. I, um, I want to give it back to her privately, all right?"

A skeptical look crossed Hermione's face. "'Privately'? Why?"

"Hermione."

"Well, she must be—oh. _Oh_ ," she said, flushing more deeply.

Harry laughed. "You act as though you've never—" _Shit. My big, huge,_ gaping _mouth—I_ am _an idiot_! he thought, as his friend's expression turned to mortification.

"Good night, Harry," Hermione said, hastily gathering her books and leaving him alone at the table.

 _At least Snape didn't see that_ , he thought, taking himself to bed.

The next afternoon was the occasion of the pre-season meeting of the Quidditch teams. Harry was the Gryffindor Seeker, but Ron had been elected captain. They walked across the pitch toward their corner of the field, the other teams already having assembled—Ron, very proud of his status had wanted to make "an entrance"—and Harry caught sight of Blaise, who was the Reserve Seeker for Slytherin, making an effort to be noticed not noticing his progress. He sighed. 

"Cheer up, mate," Ron told him happily. "It's a good sign."

"How is her ignoring her a good sign?"

"Well, if she didn't give a toss about you, she really would ignore you, wouldn't she?"

The logic of that made sense to Harry, and he tried to pay attention to his friend as Ron discussed the coming season's strategy. It still bothered him, however, that Blaise's hair was hanging down her back in a long braid. _It's too pretty to be trapped like that_.

"Oi! Harry! Pay attention, would you?"

"Sorry."

Ron snorted, and the others snickered, but the slight commotion regarding Harry's lapse subsided quickly. After the meeting, Harry took a deep breath and walked decisively toward the group of Slytherin Reserves.

"Uh, Zabini? Have a moment?"

"I have several, Potter, but none for you," she said, turning away from him so quickly that her braid whipped across his face.

"Not even for this?" Harry asked, holding up the torc, the little thrill of lust that had struck him with Blaise's braid urging him on.

The Slytherin's eyes widened, and she snatched at the object, but Harry pulled it away.

"Give that to me!"

"Not until you let me apologize," Harry said, not noticing Draco Malfoy approach him from behind. "Hey!" he exclaimed, as the torc was taken from him.

"Really, Potter—stealing from girls—that's not going to do your reputation any good, is it?"

"Give that back, Malfoy," Harry demanded.

"This?" Draco said, casually examining the item. "I think not. I quite like it, in fact," he said, placing it around his neck.

"Take. That. Off," Blaise said in a low, dangerous tone.

"Why, Zabini? If it's so important to you, you shouldn't have given it to Potter."

"I didn't give it to him!"

"I found it. Now give it to Blai—Zabini—now."

"Or what?"

"This is what," Ron said from behind the Slytherin team's captain, bringing one balled fist down on Malfoy's head.

Draco's knees buckled, and he fell to the ground.

" _Accio torc_!" Harry cast, holding out his hand to take the object and then turning—to find the entirety of Slytherin's Quidditch contingent holding their wands on him.

He did not have to turn around to know that the Gryffindors were doing the same.

"You bastard!" Draco yelled, trying to stand.

"Here," Harry said quickly, handing Blaise her torc. "Look, I'm sorry, I—"

"You will be, Potter—Weasel—I'll make you both—"

"Enough," Madam Hooch said, breaking the circle of angry students and glaring down at Malfoy. "Wands down, now!"

Everyone complied.

"Would someone please explain the reason for this unacceptable display to me?"

"We were just demonstrating . . . technique, Coach Hooch," Ron lied. "Weren't we, Malfoy?" he threatened.

Draco stood and opened his mouth to protest, but then thought the better of it. "Right. What the Weasel said."

"Right, you bunch of liars had better straighten out whatever is going on and not repeat it, or I'll cancel the season. This is Quidditch, not war," the professor said, leaving them to it.

"Stay away from my team, Potter," Draco said darkly, storming off.

The other Slytherin players followed his lead, except for Blaise, who stood there looking uncertain. "You probably shouldn't have done that, Weasley."

"Felt all right to me," Ron said diffidently, to the laughter of the Gryffindor players. "You coming, Harry?"

Harry shot his friend an annoyed look.

"Right then, see you at dinner?"

"Sure," Harry replied, never taking his eyes off Blaise's.

It felt good to feel her looking at him again.

"What were you going to do?"

"When?"

"When Malfoy took it."

"Oh, I, I guess hit him. He shouldn't have taken it."

"You took it."

"I found it."

"But you _wouldn't_ give it to me, would you?"

"Look, Zabini—Blaise—I just wanted you to hear my apology for the other night. I was going to give the torc back to you, after, I swear."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You said something about an apology?"

"Oh, right. I didn't mean to, you know, the other night. I just meant—"

"Potter, you're terrible at apologies."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I guess I am. I didn't mean it about your hair, I—"

"You mean you don't like it? Did you lie about my breasts, too?" Blaise demanded, once again looking upset.

"No! I do like your breasts!" Harry exclaimed, groaning when his voice echoed across the field. _Shit_! _I did not just say that_!

"Oh, lovely, Potter. Now everyone thinks you've _seen_ them!" Blaise hissed at him before turning and striding off toward the changing rooms.

"Merlin, just please kill me _now_ ," Harry muttered.

"If you think that would help."

 _Oh, great. Just what I need—another sneaking Slytherin_! "Professor," he ground out.

"Mr. Potter, I don't know quite what to say. Your ability to charm the witches is becoming the stuff of legend."

" _What_?"

"Miss Granger, Miss Weasley, and Miss Zabini all seem _very_ impressed by your linguistic facility," Snape answered sarcastically, "if what I've heard is true."

"People are talking about all of this?"

"People are always talking about you, Potter. Why is it a surprise?"

"It's embarrassing, is what it is. Well, I did what you said, and she noticed me, but now I've got Malfoy mad at Ron, and—"

"Mr. Malfoy needed no prompting on that score, and it was not you who struck him, but Mr. Weasley."

"Don't you mean, 'showed him technique', Sir?" Harry asked, in spite of himself feeling amused.

Snape snorted.

"Why didn't you take points, Professor? I mean, if you saw?"

"I have better things to do than torture brats, don't I?"

"No, really—why?"

"Mr. Potter, it may come as a surprise to you, but I _do_ have better things to do than ruin Slytherin's chances of winning the house cup by irritating Xiomera Hooch into canceling the Quidditch season."

"She wouldn't really cancel the season, Sir."

"You are mistaken in that. She has canceled it before, and her mood is such, given the state of things, that she might be inclined to cancel it again if she felt the teams' interaction warranted it. 'This is Quidditch, not war', she said."

"Yeah, so she did. She's worried, then?"

"We are all 'worried', Potter. Coach Hooch has more reasons than some to be worried. Her . . . partner is a Muggle."

 _Crap. And I'm worried about getting a girl to like me_ , Harry thought. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't."

"I suppose I should probably just forget about Quidditch altogether and focus on Occlumency and other useful things."

"Whoever told you that Quidditch was not useful?" Snape asked, furrowing his brow in irritation.

"You just did—the war, you keep reminding me about it—I shouldn't be bothering with the . . . with girls."

"Mr. Potter, if you quit the Gryffindor Quidditch team I will personally make your past six years, three months, two weeks, and three days as a Hogwarts' student seem like a vacation, no matter what kind of deal we have struck. I have fifty galleons riding on the outcome of the season, and I will not permit Min—Professor McGonagall to win them because you decide to alter the make-up of your team and cancel the terms of our bet."

 _He's counting the days until I leave—or die_ , thought Harry. "Shouldn't you be happy that I want to quit?"

"Your arrogance is reassuring, boy, but you vastly underestimate this year's Slytherin team. We will crush you," Snape said confidently, before striding off, as usual, without another word.

Harry went to see Hagrid, wondering if Snape was being nice to him because of their deal, or because he really thought he might be dying soon.

"Yer no' goin' to die, 'Arry," the groundskeeper cum professor assured him. "Ye'll defeat He Who Must Not Be Named an' everything'll get back to normal, ye'll see."

"Normal. What's that, then?"

Hagrid laughed and began making pointed comments about how one ought to treat a difficult animal. Harry was not sure whether his friend meant Snape or Blaise, but he got the point about "coaxin'."

Three days later, he found himself in the Three Broomsticks sitting alone at the back of the pub and watching Professor Snape chat up Madame Rosmerta. Now that he knew they were seeing each other, it was perfectly obvious that the man was flirting with the her. _How does he do it_? _It's not like he's the most handsome wizard in the world. Of course, I'm not much to look at, myself, but at least I'm nice. Well, he's being nice to her, isn't he_? he thought, watching how Snape's fingers slid over the publican's as he took a tankard from her. Given the Potions master's usual reserve, it was almost an indecent display. _Touching. That seems to be important. Touching—not shouting about a girl's breasts_. Harry groaned to remember his behavior. _Idiot, idiot, idiot_!

As he was chastising himself while waiting on Ron and Hermione to return from "browsing the shops', Fred and George Weasley entered the pub, scanned it, and grinned in tandem when they saw Harry.

"Oi!" called one of the Weasley twins. "You need another?"

"Sure," Harry called back, and the boys brought three bottles to the table. 

But when Harry went to take the one that looked like his, George, at least, he thought it was George, pulled the bottle back and said, "I'll give it to you, mate, if, you know, you like my breasts."

Both twins laughed as Harry lowered his head in mortification.

"Don't mind him. He's an arse," Fred, at least, he thought it was Fred, said.

"How did you know?"

"Please, Potter, we may have left the school, but we're not without our sources. Give him the bottle, Fred."

 _Ah. Wrong as usual_ , thought Harry. "Great," he muttered, taking the bottle.

"Look, Harry," George said in an "I'm-being-reasonable" way, "you really shouldn't be courting a Slytherin by wandpoint. It's not subtle."

"I didn't pull my wand."

"That's the problem, then. Thought so," Fred said.

" _What_?"

"Blaise Trillare Zabini," George broke in, "is a Slytherin goddess. She could have anyone, but she wants you. So why don't you just take her, then?"

"How do you know—oh, right. 'Sources'—what do you mean, 'take her'?"

The two redheads glanced at each other. "Perhaps brother," said Fred, "our work here is more involved than we thought."

"You do know about shagging, don't you?" asked George of Harry, who's cheeks burned in response.

"Of course I know about shagging!"

"Well, then, what's the problem?" both boys asked as one.

"She doesn't—I can't just—be reasonable!"

"She does, you can, and we're _being_ reasonable," George opined. "She wants you, mate. It's really rather simple."

"It's not," Harry protested. "She's mad at me. I don't know why, and I can't just—you know—we haven't even ever been on a date!"

"Dating's a requirement of shagging?" Fred asked George.

George snorted. "It's news to me, brother."

"I guess I just take this sort of thing more seriously than you two do. I like Blaise. I respect her. I'm not just going to . . . to use her for sex."

"But she _wants_ you to use her for sex, you pillock!"

"Fred, she does not!"

"Our sources say differently, Harry," George told him.

"What sources?"

"I'm afraid that's privileged information," both Weasleys replied.

"Now, now, gentlemen, no secret-keeping in my establishment," Madame Rosmerta teased them. "Would you like another round?"

 _Round_ , Harry thought, looking at the witch's middle, is exactly what she seemed to be. He tried not to stare. _She's . . . she's pregnant_! he realized, eyes widening in shock. _Snape got her pregnant! No wonder he's been in such a good mood_. "Uh, um, no. No, thanks."

"Well, I'd like another," Fred said, "and so would George, please."

After the witch levitated two bottles to the table and left, George laughed. "No wonder you can't get anywhere with Zabini. Harry, mate, you have to talk to witches if you want to shag them, you know. That _is_ a requirement."

 _Snape's gotten Rosmerta pregnant_ , Harry thought again, feeling all of a sudden quite put out that his greasy old git of a Potions master could get a witch pregnant, and he could not even talk to one.

"Brother, I believe we've lost him," Fred said, nudging Harry.

"Wha—oh. You know, I'm . . . I'm going back to the school. Thanks for the um, advice," he said distractedly, wandering out of the pub and not looking where he was going until he ended up near the Shrieking Shack. "Great," Harry said, looking at the old, ramshackle building. "Just sodding wonderful."

"More of a shame than anything else, I'd say," a deep, though feminine, voice said from behind him. "I don't know why they don't just tear it down."

"Bulstrode," Harry acknowledged the Slytherin without turning around. _Fuck. Where do they keep coming from_?

"So Potter, what are the Weasleys like?" the girl asked without preamble, moving to stand beside him and glare at the shack.

"Um, they're nice. Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because Ginny's invited me to meet them over the hols."

 _That does sound serious_. "She has?"

"Yep," Millicent replied.

"And you're nervous."

"I'm just asking a question, Potter. That doesn't mean I'm nervous."

Harry chuckled. "Bulstrode, you are nervous—but don't be. They're nice people."

"If you say so."

"Um," Harry said, turning to observe the girl, "you're not going to, I mean, you don't follow—"

"What? I'm in Slytherin, so that automatically makes me a Death Eater?" Millicent demanded.

"It increases the odds, at any rate," Harry replied firmly. "And if you're seeing Ginny, you should know that if you are thinking about it, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley won't be nice to you."

"They'll have plenty of other reasons not to like me," the girl said gruffly, shifting her feet.

"You in the mood to make a deal, Bulstrode?"

"What sort of deal?"

"I'll tell you how to get on with Ginny's parents, if you'll help me get Blaise to talk to me. Deal?"

Millicent laughed. "That's a stupid deal, Potter. Blaise is—I mean, yeah—deal," she said, holding out her hand.

Harry shook it. "Deal, then. So, what do you know about Muggle technology?"

"Not a damn thing, but I'm willing to learn about it. What do you know about Fire Ficuses?" she asked, grinning.

"Nothing, but I know someone who does," he told her, smiling back.


	3. That Present and Christmas Dinner

Two weeks later, Harry was waiting nervously at breakfast for the owls to bring the post. The Great Hall was decorated for Halloween, and animated candy spiders crawled over the table pouncing upon cream puff "flies." Neville slid in next to him and smiled. He knew what was coming.

"Is it ready?" Harry whispered.

"Yes, don't worry. It's beautiful. Sorry it took so long."

"Neville, you grew the rarest specimen of Fire Ficus in eight days. It didn't take long at all. And thanks again."

"Are you sure it's the best thing, Harry? Most of us give flowers, you know."

"She doesn't like flowers."

"But a flaming Dragon Fire Ficus she does like? Too strange," the other boy replied, shaking his head. "Oh, here comes the post!"

Harry looked up to see hundreds of owls descend into the hall, and scanned until he saw six big birds clutching the handle of a huge, fire-resistant bag and carrying it to the Slytherins' table. "Wow, I didn't think it'd be that large."

"All dragons are large," Neville said sagely.

Harry snorted at that. "True enough." _Well, this ought to get her to notice me_.

Bulstrode had told him that the Zabini household was full of such plants, and that they were Blaise's favorite. She had figured that since her house mate was missing her uncle, it would make her happy to have a reminder of home and family. He hoped she was right.

The owls delivered the parcel to Blaise, who looked poked at it looking for a tag. Finding none, she used her wand to snip the string holding the bag together, and the fabric fell away to reveal a plant with a tall, sturdy looking crimson stalk and shiny red-orange leaves, the tips of which were glimmering with tiny flames.

"Woah, look at what Zabini got," Ron said, looking more rumpled than he had when Harry left him in the common room.

Neville said, "So, where's Hermione?" in a sly tone, and a few of the other boys made rude comments, which Ron mostly ignored.

"Shut it, you lot," he said, sitting down.

"Made up, did you?" Harry asked, watching Blaise's face, which did not seem to be glowing with the expected happiness.

"You could say that. What's that plant?"

"It's a Dragon Fire Ficus," Harry said, turning his head to look at his friend.

"Bloody hell!" the enraged-sounding voice of Draco Malfoy shrieked. "Put me out! Put me OUT!"

The Great Hall erupted into laughter.

Harry turned back just in time to see Gregory Goyle throw pumpkin juice on Malfoy, Parkinson's freezing hex hit the plant and turn to steam, and Blaise looking . . . sad, as well as embarrassed.

"You're off the Reserves, Zabini!" Malfoy yelled.

Harry jumped to his feet. "You can't do that!"

Ron pulled him back down before he could leave, saying, "You'll make it worse, mate. Don't interfere—it might blow over if you leave it."

"Damn that bastard!"

"My poor Fire Ficus," Neville said, and he _did_ rise from the table to go over to the Slytherin one and see to the damage.

Draco was spluttering with rage as he stormed off, Pansy in his wake, when Neville approached Blaise. Harry could not hear what he was saying to the girl, but he saw her nod her head, and then turn it to favor _him_ with a hard stare before reaching for the pot and helping the Gryffindor remove it from the hall.

"That went well," Harry muttered. "Shit."

"Language, Mr. Potter," Snape said, as he walked past him on his way out of the Great Hall.

"Nice. He could have used the staff exit," Ron observed.

"What, and lose an opportunity to make me feel like an even bigger prat?"

"You mean _you_ sent her that?"

"Yeah."

"Excellent choice."

"Shut it."

"Well, she seemed to like it before it caught Malfoy's robes on fire and he threw her off the Slytherin Reserves."

"Thanks. What part of 'shut it' confused you?"

"You probably should've just kissed her," Ron told him, stuffing his mouth with a piece of buttered toast before gathering up his books. "'R'oo comimf?"

Blaise was not at lunch, nor was she at dinner. It did not make matters any better to note that Malfoy had not been to either meal, as he was "recovering" from his ordeal in the Slytherin dormitory. Harry was worried, and when Neville showed up for the evening meal, he all but dragged him toward the doors again to have a private word.

"Well?"

"Well, what? I'm starved, is what—and this isn't actually subtle, Harry."

"What did she say?"

"Not much. I helped her carry it to the door of her common room, Bulstrode appeared out of nowhere and acted like Bulstrode, Zabini thanked me, and I told her how to care for the bruised leaves. That's it. She didn't say anything about you. . . . Sorry."

"Right, thanks," Harry said, returning to Ron and Hermione, and flicking a cream puff fly across the table in irritation. "Sodding moving candy."

"It's not the fly's fault that your gift-giving exercise didn't go well," Hermione sniffed.

Harry said nothing.

"Hermione, really," Ron protested. "He was trying to do something nice."

"Trying," the witch said, clearly not thinking much of his effort.

"You know," Harry began to say and then stopped. "Goodnight."

Walking away, he heard Ron attempt to whisper, "But we are shag—"

An annoyed exclamation followed this, and Hermione reached the doors to the Great Hall and was through them before he had gotten halfway to them. He decided it would be best if he returned to Ron.

"Back are you? Good. Now we can be in disgrace together."

"How'd you . . . woo Hermione, Ron?"

"'Woo'? I don't know that I'd call it that, mate. You know me," he said embarrassedly, "man of action. I didn't so much court Hermione as, um, grab her face one night last year and kiss her—badly, but she liked it well enough to let me practice. I'm pretty good now," he finished, looking smug.

"You grabbed her and kissed her and she didn't hex you?"

"Nope. She bit me, though. 'Course, that's not always bad, I've decided."

"No more, please," Harry said, holding up a hand.

Ron snickered. "Just kiss the girl, why don't you? Slytherin or not, if she likes you, she'll kiss back," he said, rising from the table. "Now I'm off to make up with my girlfriend."

He did not look at all displeased by the prospect Harry noted. _Ron's already made it to angry make-up sex, and all I've ever done is snog Cho_ , he thought, feeling sorry for himself.

The next evening was Halloween, and the Feast was magnificent, but Harry did not care. He picked at his food and cast lingering glances at Blaise, who was sitting by herself at the end of the Slytherin table. None of her Reserve mates, apparently, would have anything to do with her, and Bulstrode was at the Gryffindor table sitting with Ginny. The only reason Ron did not seem to mind this, he knew, was the fact that Hermione's foot was doing something to her boyfriend's leg. At least Harry hoped it was Ron's leg.

 _She looks lonely. Maybe I should go over there_.

Before he could decide if it was a good idea, Gil Gorechrist, a Seventh Year Slytherin, rose from his end of the table and made a great show of going to sit next to Blaise. He was a tall boy—almost as tall as Snape—and handsome, the kind of handsome that sold magazines and made every other bloke hate you. Harry decided he was one such bloke.

Dean Thomas leaned over Ron to opine that "it's nice to see her getting proper attention," and Harry felt his ears burn.

His eyes filmed over redly, however, when Gorechrist placed one capable-looking, intrusive hand on the small of the Blaise's back.

"Easy there, Harry," Ron whispered. "Don't be stupid."

"Why? I'm good at stupid."

"Because we're seventy-two points behind Slytherin, is why."

Harry sighed. Ron would never forgive him if he did something to harm their chances of winning the House Cup, so he sat where he was, and watched his rival as he charmed Blaise for the rest of the meal.

Gorechrist walked her to the Great Hall the next evening for dinner, and the night after that. In fact, the two quickly became the most celebrated Slytherin couple of the term, behind Malfoy and Parkinson, of course, and it made Harry sick to think about it.

The only thing that cheered him was the fact that Gryffindor had yet to lose a Quidditch game, but that soon failed to move him, too. It did not help his mood that Professor Dumbledore had decided, based on the increasingly frequent Death Eater attacks, that Harry would have to remain at the school over the Yuletide break and forego his plans to visit the Burrow.

"Aw, that's dreadful," Ron said.

"Yeah."

"Well, Mum'll let me pop 'round to see you, I'm sure. I'll bring Hermione. We'll open our presents together. It'll be fun."

"Sure."

Christmas day dawned bright and cold for Harry, the only Gryffindor student staying over the holidays, and he went down to the common room after dressing to find a roaring fire and Albus Dumbledore.

"Happy Christmas, Harry."

"Happy Christmas, Sir."

"Now then, why the long face, my boy? You've presents here."

"I do? Ron was supposed to be bringing those later."

"Mr. Weasley is not the only one to think of you, it seems," the old wizard said, his eyes twinkling.

Harry looked at the little table by the hearth and saw an envelope. "This is for me?" he asked, picking it up. "Yeah, so it is," he said, seeing his name written on it in an unfamiliar hand.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"Sure," Harry replied, slipping his finger through a gape in the flap and flicking it up and then removing the note it contained before scanning it.

"What does it say?"

Harry colored. "Um . . . ."

"Well, it's none of my business, of course. I merely thought I'd come by to wish you the joy of the day and tell you that dinner will be rather small this evening. In fact, so small that I thought you and the other Hogwarts' student remaining might wish to dine alone."

"Someone else is here?"

"Indeed. She found that her plans had changed quite suddenly, I'm afraid, and isn't particularly looking forward to eating dinner with her professors. Do you think you might find it in yourself to take pity on a Slytherin and save her from that?"

"Oh, no."

"What is it, Harry?"

"Bulstrode. She and Gin—oh."

"It's quite all right. I'm well aware of Miss Weasley's courtship of Miss Bulstrode," Dumbledore said mildly.

That seemed an odd way of putting it, Harry thought, but did not say. "Well, sure. I'll have dinner with Bulstrode. Sure," Harry said, glancing back down at the unexpected note.

"Wonderful! Then I shall leave you to await your friends, Harry. Dinner will be at seven in the Great Hall. The other professors and I will be dining in my chambers," the Headmaster told him, rising to leave.

The boy looked again at the note and thought, _Who would send this to me_? _Why_?

The note read:

"Dear Gore,

"It kills me dead to watch you with her when I know you're only seeing her because of your parents. It isn't fair, and I don't like it. You and I have something, you know. We mean something to each other. You can't keep putting me off. You know you'd rather be down on your knees before me than sucking up that bint's conversation. You have to talk to me, Gore. I miss you so much I ache. Doesn't it matter to you that you're breaking my heart? I think it does. I know it does. Please, please meet me in the Owlery before you leave.

"I want you.

"Yours,

"Zach"

"Well, that certainly explains _that_ ," Harry said, remembering how surprised Smith—looking disheveled and well-shagged—had been to see him when he had arrived at the Owlery the previous night to find the Hufflepuff leaving. _I wonder if Blaise knows that her boyfriend is queer_?

He was so happy about having received such splendid information that he found himself actually looking forward to having Christmas dinner with Millicent Bulstrode, and he did not mention it to Ron, Ginny, and Hermione when they came to visit. He was a bit surprised to find Ginny so happy, despite her argument with her girlfriend.

 _But then, Gin's always bounced back quickly from things, hasn't she_? he thought, wondering if Bulstrode would be of a mind to help him figure out a way to explain things to Blaise. _I'm an idiot, but at least I'm a_ straight _idiot_ , he told himself hopefully.

Harry dressed carefully for dinner, out of respect for Bulstrode's unhappiness, and went down to the Great Hall early. He was surprised to find it empty of the long tables usually present, and one small, round, well-laid table sitting in the center of the festively decorated room. Faeries floated in a ring above it, and several fragrant fir trees—that seemed to be growing out of the floor—encircled it; magically produced "snow" fell on their branches. It was quite a romantic scene, and this realization caused Harry to panic. He was well aware of Professor Dumbledore's match-making mania.

 _But he wouldn't—he couldn't think that Bulstrode and I—not when she's been in love with Ginny_. . . .

"It's very pretty, isn't it?" a soft, familiar voice said.

 _Blaise_ , Harry thought, turning quickly. "Blai—Zabini—what are _you_ doing here?"

"Well, if that's how you feel about it, I'll go, then."

"No, wait—I'm just surprised. I thought you were Bulstrode," he said quickly, taking a step toward the girl.

Blaise's eyes widened. "What?"

"Well, Professor Dumbledore said that—"

"Potter, you really are dense, aren't you? Millicent's with the Weasleys. I believe she told you that, didn't she?"

"Sure, but—"

His voice caught in his throat as he looked at the Slytherin, really looked at her. Blaise was wearing a long-sleeved, royal blue dress that gathered under her bosom and dropped in a graceful sweep over the curves of her hips to the floor before flaring out. The swell of her breasts rose under the glinting gold of her uncle's torc, its cabochons matching the dress's color exactly, and her hair was shot through with gold ribbons in a crown of braids—but her auburn tresses, impossibly long and shining—fell from the circlet of hair down her back and over her shoulders in wave after wave of silken glory.

 _God_. "You look like a queen," he breathed, his admiration for the girl's beauty draining low in his body and causing his head to lighten from loss of blood. "Y—you're magnificent, Blaise."

She flushed, with pleasure or irritation, Harry could not tell, and said, "I don't believe I've given you leave to use my first name, Mr. Potter."

 _Oh. Shit_. "Um, well, Miss Zabini," Harry replied formally, turning to pull out one of the two chairs from the table for her, "you're looking remarkably gorgeous this evening—not that you don't always look pretty, um, gorgeous, I mean—I mean, would you care to sit down?"

She took the proffered chair, saying, "Thank you."

Harry gratefully sank into his own chair, staring at how the twinkling light of the faeries caused enigmatic shadows to play across Blaise's face. He had no idea what to say to her, so he elected the obvious. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas to you, Mr. Potter," she replied, smiling slowly.

Harry's mind went blank.

"Mr. Potter?"

" _Yes_ —I mean, yes?" he squeaked, valiantly attempting not to stare at Blaise's breasts.

"I was sorry to hear that you had to change your plans for the holidays. It must be . . . very hard to have to hide like this."

"Hide? What? _Oh_. Oh, you mean Voldemort."

"Yes, _him_."

But Harry did not want to talk about the Dark Lord. "Tell me about your uncle, Bl—Miss Zabini—I think you must miss him." _Stupid_! _That was a bloody stupid thing to ask_!

Blaise did not look offended. "You really want to hear about Uncle 'Carlo?"

"Yeah—if you want to talk about him, of course," Harry said, as their glasses began to fill with wine.

"Oh, smell that," Blaise said delightedly, picking up her glass and sloshing the contents around before inhaling. "It's a very old vintage."

Harry sniffed at his glass of wine. It _did_ smell nice. "But I don't know anything about wine," he said apologetically.

"Well, taste it," she urged, doing the same. "Yes, it's very old—a lovely Beaujolais."

"Did your uncle teach you about wine?"

"Oh, Uncle 'Carlo loved a good wine. His father was a vintner, and was quite put out when his son decided to become an Auror."

"I'm sorry about your uncle," Harry said. "I didn't know he'd died, or how. That must have been . . . ."

"It was, sad, I mean. Uncle 'Carlo didn't . . . appreciate our family's politics. He was always telling me not to give in to their pressure," Blaise said quietly.

"You mean, he didn't want you to join Voldemort."

"Yes. That's why I'm here, you know. Mother told me I wasn't welcome at home until . . . . Well, I suppose we have that in common."

Harry looked quizzically at her.

"Neither of us has a home to go to."

She looked so unhappy that Harry reached out his hand across the table, and was shocked when Blaise took it. "Hogwarts is home."

"I suppose so. For now. It's selfish, but what I miss most about my uncle is how he protected me—from my parents, from what they wanted me to do—ever since his death, it's been almost impossible to be with anyone else in my family. They hate me for refusing to . . . ."

"Become a Death Eater."

"Yes."

"So you're disowned, then?"

"Yes," Blaise said, squeezing Harry's hand.

"Well, Bulstrode isn't a Death Eater either, and she's your friend. And Professor Dumbledore's taking care of you, isn't he? And I . . . ."

"You, what?" the girl asked, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"I'm your friend, too, if you want me to be."

Blaise sighed, an irritated sound, but then squared her shoulders and replied, "Then you should call me Blaise, shouldn't you?"

Harry grinned. "Whatever you say, Your Majesty."

Their plates filled then with some sort of beef dish, and roasted potatoes and carrots, and they released their hands and began eating.

"It's very good."

"Of course it is, Mr. Potter."

Harry blinked. "Oh, you can call me Harry—if you'd like to."

"I'll think about it," Blaise replied pertly, laughing at him when his face clouded. "Harry, don't be so tentative. It isn't necessary."

 _Tentative_? _Oh, hesitant_. "Youmakemenervous," he said, blushing furiously. _I should stop trying to talk, that's what I should do. Idiot_.

"I hadn't noticed."

"Now you're just being nice."

"No, now I'm just mocking you. . . . Why do I make you nervous, Harry?"

"Um, well, you're . . . you're just so . . . and I . . . ," Harry said, stumbling over his words as he remembered Snape taunting him about the need to form "coherent sentences" in Blaise's presence. "I don't want to . . ." _die a virgin_.

"What? Offend me in your usual way? Millicent says that Ginny Weasley hasn't spoken to you in weeks."

"I know. I, um, seem to be sticking my foot in it all the time, lately—in my mouth, I mean."

"I understood you."

"Oh, great." _This is going well_.

"Would it help if we talked about Quidditch?"

"What do you mean?"

"You seem to fare better when we talk about sport."

"Do I?"

"You do," Blaise replied, pushing a potato around on her plate.

 _She looks bored. You're boring her. Wonderful. Think of something, you useless git_!

"What do you think about Silvio and Hedwig?" Blaise asked, when Harry did not speak for awhile.

"Silvio and Hedwig—oh, they're rather friendly, aren't they?"

"You could call it that, I suppose. Do you think we should give their chicks to Hogwarts, or were you planning on presenting them to friends?"

"What?"

"You understand that their brooding together, don't you?"

"Brooding? They seem happy to me. Oh. _Oh_ , they're nesting?"

"You _didn't_ know. Harry Potter, for all that you're the celebrated hero of our age, you miss a lot, don't you?"

"I guess I do," he said, feeling miserable.

"Don't look like that. So you're not observant. There are worse things you could be."

"Thanks." _I think_. "Well, if there are babies, what do you want to do about them? Giving them to the school sounds like a good idea."

"All right."

"Blaise?"

"Yes?"

"Do you like Gorechrist very much?"

"Gilbert's a decent enough chap. Why?"

 _He's queer and too good looking and I wish you'd like me. Do you like me_? _I like you_. "No reason."

"You must have had a reason, or you wouldn't have asked," Blaise said impatiently.

"It's just that I think he might . . . ."

"Be in love with Zacharias Smith?"

"You _know_?"

"Of course I know," she said, shaking her head a bit and causing her hair to ripple.

Harry's mind went blank again. He was dimly aware that his mouth had gone slack, but he did not care.

"You do like my hair, don't you?" Blaise said, looking amused.

"Yes, and your—I mean, yeah, I do—but I like _you_ , all of you, too. Is that all right?"

"Yes, Harry. It is," she told him, reaching for his hand again.

He took hers, and sighed when he felt her thumb lightly brush over the top of his hand. "That's nice."

"Is it?" she asked, her voice low and teasing.

"Yeah," Harry replied, his breathing becoming erratic.

"You seem to have lost interest in your food."

"Yeah." _Oh, God. Keep doing that_.

Blaise kept rubbing her thumb over his hand, and Harry translated the sensation to another appendage in need of friction.

"Would you like to take a walk?"

 _No_! "A . . . a walk? Where?" he asked nervously, suddenly worried about having to stand without the benefit of robes to shield him. "Don't you want to see what's for dessert?"

"I thought we'd make our own dessert."

"Make our own—Blaise! he exclaimed, pulling his hand away—you don't have to do this for me to be your friend! What kind of wizard do you think I am, anyway?"

"A singular one, Potter, that's what kind," the girl said angrily, standing up and pushing her chair backwards. "Quidditch. Right. We'll just keep to that next time."

Watching her storm off, Harry felt embarrassed and uncertain and lost. He wanted to call her back or to follow her, but it seemed best just to let her go. _I knew she didn't really like me,_ he thought disconsolately _. She's just lonely. She just thinks she has to . . . do whatever it is she was doing so that I'll be her friend. Shit_.


	4. That Problem of His Increases

Harry spent the remainder of the holidays wanking in frustration or taking Hedwig out to fly, and saw nothing more of Blaise. It was a relief, really, but not as much as not seeing Snape was. The first day of the Spring term, however, the Potions master became so angry at him for ruining a potion that he assigned Harry a full week of detention.

"Ah, enter Mr. Potter, our most gentlemanlike hero," the man sneered, on Harry's first evening.

"What's that supposed to mean—Sir?"

Snape shook his head in disgust. "Really, Potter—romantic setting, dining alone, a clear offer—and you put her off because you felt _she_ felt compelled to proposition you? You _are_ singular—a singular idiot."

"You were spying on us?"

"No, I was not."

"Then how—"

"One pleasant duty of being Head of Slytherin House is to listen to my charges' concerns. You upset Miss Zabini a great deal by intimating that she was a trollop."

"That's _not_ what I did!"

"It is what she thinks you did. Do you not _like_ women, Potter? Is that why you won't—"

"Right, that's _enough_ ," Harry said firmly, his fists clenching. "This is none of your business, and even if it were, Blaise is _scared_. She was just disinherited! I'm not going to take advantage of her!"

Snape appeared to consider Harry's outburst, pursing his lips and glaring at the boy, and then he did something that completely shocked the young man: he laughed.

"Potter, you _are_ a gentleman, aren't you?"

"Why is that a surprise? Why does everyone think it's weird that I'm not . . . not . . . ."

"Shagging Miss Zabini?"

"Yes," Harry said, flushing. "That."

Snape snorted. "Have you _seen_ Miss Zabini?"

"Professor!"

"It's just a question, Potter. Oh, very well. Your restraint is to be commended, but do not allow it to hinder your courtship of Miss Zabini. Gorechrist may have . . . other interests, but there are many who, taking your hesitance as a sign of disinterest, would not scruple to _fail_ to show your level of respect to the girl, and she is a normal, healthy young woman with _interests_ of her own."

"I don't believe this," Harry said, running a hand agitatedly through his hair.

"What?"

"That you're actually trying to persuade me to shag one of your 'charges'. Is that really something that a _professor_ should be doing?"

"Miss Zabini is not just any of my charges, Potter. As you pointed out, she has been disinherited. That does not mean, however, that her family has no interest in her—or her potential associates."

"You mean they'll try and see to it she marries someone who _is_ a Death Eater?"

"Outstanding. Your grasp of matters far exceeds my expectations."

"Shit."

"Indeed."

"You don't expect me to marry her, do you?" Harry asked, alarm ringing in his tone.

"Shall we speak plainly?"

" _Can_ you do that?"

"Don't be sarcastic, Potter. My being a Slytherin does not mean that I auto—"

"Automatically arrange things when you could just ask for them? Sure it does. What is it that you want from me, Sir?"

"I want you to openly court Miss Zabini so that her parents will leave off trying to _arrange_ a marriage with anyone else, Potter. If I had asked you to do this, however—"

"You'll never know, Professor, because you didn't ask. Why did you have to pretend . . . never mind. Look, I do like Blaise. I think she's . . . I _do_ like her, and if you think it might help her if I date her, I will—but I'm not going to take advantage of her, and frankly, I'm beginning to doubt she likes me at all. She's like you—she even _talks_ like you, sometimes! I'll bet all of this is just—"

"Potter!"

Harry jumped and snapped his mouth shut.

"I did not lie to you about Miss Zabini's feelings for you," Snape insisted, looking darkly at him.

"And I'm supposed to believe that, why?"

The Potions master sighed, and Harry saw how tired he looked. It bothered him that he cared, but he did. "What's wrong?"

"Apparently, I am not to be trusted."

"And that bothers you? You're the one—"

"Potter."

"Yes, Sir?"

"Get out of here. Go. I am done playing matchmaker."

"Professor—"

"Go."

"I can't."

"Your feet have ceased to function?"

"No, Sir. I can't leave you alone if I believe you're in trouble. Life debt, remember?"

"Your lack of understanding of life de—"

"Man to man, right? We're supposed to be getting along?"

"I will never forgive myself for making you that infernal promise."

Harry smirked. "Well, you did. You might as well tell me what's wrong. Who else are you going to tell?" he asked, sitting down at the front- and center-most desk.

"That's certainly an inducement to unburden myself."

"I'm waiting. Oh, and I never did say so, but congratulations. When is Madame Rosmerta due?"

Snape's eyes widened in disbelief and then narrowed in anger, and he drew his wand before Harry could even think about defending himself—but the Potions master merely locked the door to the classroom, set a silencing charm, and then snarled, "Imbecile!"

"What'd I _do_?"

"Do you think I _want_ anyone to know that my wife is with child?"

"Your wife?" Harry asked, completely shocked.

"DAMN IT!"

"God, I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't think. I—"

"You never think, Potter," Snape said, shaking his head.

"Congratulations on your wedding?" Harry asked, uncertain as to how his good wishes would be received.

"Thank you," Snape said in a funereal tone, taking his seat behind his desk and glaring at the boy.

"How long ago was it?"

Snape smirked at that. "Rosmerta insisted upon it when she discovered she was pregnant. We were married the week before the Fall term began."

"Wow, she doesn't look that pregnant."

"Are you a wizard or aren't you? Concealing charm, Potter. She's just into her seventh month."

"You're not going to be able to hide the baby, though, are you?"

"No," Snape whispered, hanging his head.

"That's why you're worried."

"It is . . . one of many reasons, but it is the most pressing of my worries."

Harry did not know what to say. He had been, if not enjoying himself, feeling a sense of relief the past few months as no further attempt on his life had been made. It was frustrating not to be able to do anything—despite the prophesy, he had no clear idea how he was supposed to defeat Voldemort—and the waiting to kill the Dark Lord, or be killed by him, was trying. _But at least I get a break from worrying. Snape's got too much on his plate to ever stop worrying. God. I wish_ — "I wish there were something I could _do_ , Sir."

"You shouldn't make wishes, Potter," the Potions master said, suddenly clutching his arm. "I have to go. Tell Albus."

"But—"

"Tell him!" Snape insisted, leaving the room at a run.

"Shit."

Harry found the Headmaster in his office, told him, and was quite a bit frightened by the wizard's reaction. After a few moments of dodging the magical devices that Dumbledore's fury had caused to fly all over the room, Harry surprised himself by thinking, _Stop it_! and finding that they all returned meekly to their shelves.

"My, that was an impressive display."

"Are you talking about me, or you, Sir?"

"You, Harry. Come, sit down. Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered, clearly attempting to regain his composure.

"I'm not sure how I did that. And why are you angry with Professor Snape? Isn't he supposed to go when Voldemort summons him?"

"Not anymore he isn't, and well he knows it, too. And as far as how you did that, I _do_ know."

"Would you mind telling me?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "No, I wouldn't. Your magic is . . . much like mine."

"Um, Sir? That's not particularly clear."

"I suppose it isn't. Harry, have you found yourself doing more magic without your wand, more and more, perhaps inadvertently, when you were feeling strong emotion?"

"Well, not lately, but . . . I have before."

"Such as when you deflected Pettigrew's hex, if I am not mistaken."

"Yeah. I only pulled my wand after."

"So that no one would know."

"Yes, Sir."

"Obviously, I do not require my wand, either, to work magic."

"But you carry it—you don't want people to know, either."

"Exactly."

"Why wasn't Professor Snape supposed to go?"

"Can you not think of the reason?"

"Pettigrew. He tried to kill Sna—Professor Snape—and he wouldn't have done that without an order."

"Quite right, Harry. I fear that Voldemort suspects Severus, and, given certain other events, I would like to protect him. Of course, he takes his duties very seriously. I should have known this would happen," Dumbledore said wearily.

"What can we do?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid."

"Is my power, the one Voldemort doesn't know, how I'll kill him, Sir?" Harry asked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"I wish I could tell you that, dear boy, but I do not know. Now, if you'll excuse me . . . ."

"Oh. Sure," Harry replied, rising, feeling more relieved than peeved to be dismissed, even though he was tired of not knowing what was going on.

"And Harry?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"I believe you might find it . . . worthwhile to visit the Owlery."

Harry flushed and left quickly. Blaise, as he expected, was in the Owlery, sitting in the window and watching the stars.

"Hi," he said.

"Potter."

"You were going to call me Harry, weren't you?"

"We were going to stick to Quidditch, weren't we?" she shot back.

Harry groaned and settled himself across from the girl on the ledge. "Look, I didn't mean to offend you, or to act like an idiot. It's just that you . . . you make me nervous," he admitted, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"Why?"

"I think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I can't believe that you want to talk to me."

"And you like my hair," she added, one corner of her mouth curving up.

Harry grinned. "Don't forget your breasts," he teased, hoping that she would understand.

"Then why won't you kiss me?"

"Do you want . . . I mean, really? You _want_ me to kiss you?" Harry asked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Blaise just stared at him, the expression in her eyes making his throat go dry. Licking his lips, Harry turned his knees down and leaned forward. She leaned forward, too.

 _Oh my God. She_ does _want me to kiss her. BlaiseZabiniwantsmetokiss_ —

"Oh! Sorry—just thought I'd—never mind. Carry on, really," Gil Gorechrist said, turning and leaving as fast as he had arrived, Zacharias Smith trailing redly in his wake.

Harry moved away from Blaise, thinking that the moment had past.

" _Damn it_ ," the witch ground out after briefly staring at him in consternation. "It's all right, really. We don't have to stop."

"Actually, you _do_ ," drawled a familiar and unwelcome voice from the doorway. "Zabini, it's almost curfew. Don't make me take _more_ points from Slytherin."

"Shove off, Malfoy."

"Make me, Potter."

"I'll . . . I'll go," Blaise said.

Harry did not like how afraid she sounded. "No, you can stay."

"No, she can _go_."

"Malfoy, if you don't leave us alone, I'll—what do you mean, 'more points'?"

"What?"

"You said you took points. From whom? Gorechrist?"

"Harry, leave it," Blaise urged.

"That's none of your concern, Potter."

"I think it is," Harry replied, stepping down off the windowsill and gently shrugging off the hand Blaise had laid on his arm. "I'm tired of your bullying everyone. Gorechrist didn't _do_ anything."

The slightly taller boy smirked and said, "He's a traitor to his house—consorting with a Hufflepuff, and a _male_ one, at that—it's almost as bad as Zabini here messing about with a _Gryffindor_."

"Give the points back, Malfoy," Harry said, his voice deceptively calm.

"I don't think I will. And now it's past curfew, Zabini. That'll be ten points from Slytheri—mph!"

Draco's wand clattered to the floor as his hands reached for his mouth. He pressed on it, making strangled sounds, but did not seem to be able to speak.

"Harry, what did you do?"

 _I don't know. I don't care_! "Give the points back, Malfoy," Harry demanded, advancing on the other boy.

"Harry, what did you _do_?"

Malfoy, looking terrified, moved backward toward the door—which slammed shut.

"I said, I don't like the way you bully people, Malfoy, and I want you to give Blaise her points back. Are you going to do that, or would you prefer me to keep your voice?"

"Harry Potter! Give it back to him, right now," Blaise said, sounding furious.

Harry turned to see that she had pulled her wand on him.

"Blaise, I—"

"Who's bullying whom, now? He's terrified!"

 _So he is_ , Harry thought, not actually caring, but worried about how badly Blaise was taking his display of power. "Fine. For you—but only if Malfoy promises he'll give the points back to Slytherin."

Draco was nodding his head in emphatic assent when Harry glanced back over his shoulder at the boy. 

"Then say as much."

"RmphI'll kill you for this, Potter!"

"Points, Malfoy, or it'll be worse for you—and you're to leave Blaise and Gorechrist alone. Is that clear?" Harry said menacingly.

"Twenty points to Slytherin," Draco spat balefully. "Open the damn door and let me out, Potter."

When the door opened, Draco ran out of it, followed quickly by Blaise. Harry tried to stop her, but she jerked her arm out of his grasp and spun on him.

"Don't you dare touch me! I don't know how you did that, but it wasn't right!"

"Why do you care about Malfoy? He _threatened_ you," Harry said, the fog of anger that had clouded his mind beginning to lift. "I got your points back, didn't I?"

"Potter, you're . . . you make me sick!" the girl yelled, and then she was gone.

"But what did I do wrong?"

 _Not a thing, boy_ , came an answer from his mind.

"What? Who's—"

 _You are finally beginning to understand your power, aren't you, Harry Potter_?

"Voldemort!"

 _Yes, Lord Voldemort. I've been watching you, Harry, and I'm pleased. Pettigrew's test of you was sound, it seems. You are coming into your abilities—the magic_ I _gave you_.

"You didn't give me _anything_! You tried to _kill_ me!"

 _I do not believe killing you is the best course, not now that you have proved strong enough to exercise your power. Tell me, boy, do you truly believe that you can best me_?

"Yes!"

 _Then you are a fool, and you_ will _die, but should you elect to see reason, I believe that, together, you and I might work changes upon the world, great changes, and see to it that the weak are preserved from the vagaries of the strong_.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Head," Harry forced out between clenched teeth, bringing all his skill at Occlumency to bear upon the Dark Lord's mental intrusion.

He was gasping for breath as though he had run a long, torturous distance when he realized that Voldemort's voice was gone, and Albus Dumbledore was standing next to him.

"Are you all right, Harry?"

"I . . . I . . . he—Voldemort—he was . . . here, here in my mind."

"Yet you forced him out of it. Good. That is very good, Harry."

"It's _not_. I . . . I did something to Malfoy—before."

"Are you certain it was you?"

"What?" Harry asked, turning to look at the Headmaster.

"Was it you, or Voldemort?"

"I—" Harry began to say and then stopped. _It would be easy to blame it on Voldemort, wouldn't it be_? _But it_ wasn't _him_. "It was me, Professor. I did it. I don't know how, but I know it was me."

Dumbledore gave him an assessing look, and then smiled grimly. "I'm very proud of you, dear boy."

"Why? I hurt Malfoy. On _purpose_."

"Yes, you did. But you admit it, and for that, I am grateful. One hundred points from Gryffindor, Harry. It is unacceptable that you would exercise your powers to exact revenge."

Harry hung his head.

"And fifty points _to_ Gryffindor for your having the courage and strength of character to accept responsibility for your actions."

Raising his head, Harry protested, "But—"

"It is right to reward good behavior, just as it is to punish bad. Now then, perhaps it is time that I began helping you to hone your abilities."

"I think that would be a good idea, Sir."

"And long overdue. We will begin tomorrow evening after dinner. Come to my office, and tell no one."

With that, the Headmaster vanished.

Draco did not look at Harry in Potions the next day. Neither did Blaise, but he did not care because Professor Snape was standing at the head of the class looking as ill-tempered as usual, and Harry felt something closer to joy than relief to find him there. He wanted very badly to speak to the wizard, but knew that it would be stupid to try.

 _I'll ask the Headmaster tonight_.

He never had the opportunity to do so, however, for when he entered the door to Dumbledore's office, he found himself immediately accosted by several pieces of animated furniture, and spent the next several hours wandlessly subduing them.

"Excellent," the Headmaster said, as Harry stilled the man's predatory desk. "I believe that will do for your first lesson."

Harry was too tired to argue, or to ask anything, and returned to the Gryffindor dormitory and his bed, gratefully falling into it. He had not noticed the disapproving glances of several of his house mates as he had entered, and so did not realize how made the other Gryffindors were at him for the mysterious loss of fifty points.

The next morning, however, when not even Ron had much to say to him, he realized he was in disgrace. _Great. People hate me again. What else is new_? He wanted to tell his friends what had happened in the Owlery, but he could not, so he accepted that he was going to be lonely for awhile.

It was Gorechrist who salvaged Harry's reputation by spreading the story of the Gryffindor's having returned house points to Slytherin after Malfoy had "tried to take them from me for snogging Blaise in the Owlery."

"Like that one's going to be snogging Zabini," Ginny Weasley said, inclining her head toward Gorechrist at the Slytherin table as she sat down next to Harry at dinner.

"You're talking to me now, are you?"

"Are you planning to be an ass?"

"I never plan on it. Look, I _am_ sorry for—"

"Don't worry about it, Harry. Just beat Slytherin tomorrow, all right? We need all the help we can get now that we're behind."

"Yeah."

But when it came time to play, Harry felt his stomach drop as Lee Jordan announced that Draco Malfoy would not be playing Seeker.

 _Coward_ , Harry thought, not sure if he meant Malfoy or himself, for the thought of playing against Blaise—who looked sexier than any of the Four Great Hells in her Quidditch kit as she scowled at him—was unnerving. _Crap. We're going to lose this game_.

No one spoke to Harry in the changing rooms after Gryffindor's first loss of the season, except Ron.

"So, do you think it would help if you shagged the bint already?"

Harry did not realize that he had hit Ron until he saw his best friend sprawled on the floor. "Fuck! Ron, I'm _sorry_ ," he said, trying to force the sound of mocking laughter out of his mind.

The other players scattered as their captain hurled himself off the floor at Harry, yelling bloody murder and swinging his fists. Finally, after Ron had gotten a few knocks into Harry, the others pulled them off of each other—but it was too late.

"What the hell is going on in here?" demanded Coach Hooch, striding into the room. She took one look at Harry and Ron and roared, "OUT!"

Everyone but the two friends fled.

"I'm disgusted with both of you. Why were you fighting?"

"We weren't—"

"Shut it, Potter. The blood came from somewhere, from both of you, it looks like. This is completely unacceptable. Now, tell me why."

"'S'my fault," Ron said, sniffing blood. "I . . . insulted Harry's girlfriend."

"Did you? How is that possible when Potter doesn't _have_ a girlfriend?"

"I—"

"Oh, leave it. I don't want to know. You're both off the team for the next two games. Get cleaned up and get out of here," the witch spat, turning smartly on one heel and exiting the room.

"You shouldn't have said that."

"I know," Ron replied, pulling his blood-stained jumper over his head and tossing it into his locker.

"I'm sorry I hit you. I didn't—"

"Just shut up, Harry, all right? I don't feel like talking to you."

Harry spent the night in the Owlery, skipped breakfast, and was late to Potions.

"Detention, Mr. Potter," Snape said, before returning to his lecture, as the boy entered the room.

"At least he didn't take points," Hermione whispered encouragingly.

That evening, after repairing and scrubbing out some First Year cauldrons, Snape instructed Harry to sit. "He does not suspect me. He felt that I would be an acceptable target for Pettigrew because he is aware of your dislike of me."

"But I saved you."

"Yes, that did not please him. He would like it better if you allowed your emotions to rule you better than they do, but he feels somewhat mollified by the fact that you can exercise your magic without a wand."

It sounded like an accusation.

"You never asked."

"No, I did not. How long?"

"I really don't know, Sir."

"Long enough, apparently, that you feel free to make use of it to impress young women."

"I didn't mean to!"

"Potter, you will have to mean to do everything—to control your thoughts, to guard against the Dark Lord's, to use your magic—or you shall not mean to get yourself or someone else killed. Surely that is clear enough to you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Now get out."

"Sir?"

"What?"

"I'm glad you're back," Harry said, noting how his words made Snape's expression soften into bemusement. _Yeah, I don't hate you, you git_.

"See that you're on time, Potter."

"Yes, Professor."

As he walked down the main Slytherin corridor, he noticed how hot it seemed to be in the dungeons, lately.


	5. That Voice in His Head

A few weeks later, Ginny entered the common room wearing an unusual bracelet.

"Hey, isn't that Dragon Fire Ficus?" Ron asked his sister.

"Yep," she replied, throwing herself down on the sofa by the fire. "Millicent gave it to me from her cutting of Neville's plant."

"You mean, Blaise's cutting," Harry said.

"No, I mean Millicent's. Blaise has given all the Slytherin girls cuttings. Her plant's growing really fast."

Neville, sitting with Hermione at one of the tables, looked up, his brow furrowing. "It's not supposed to grow that fast."

"Good for you then, Nev," Ginny told him, pulling a book from her pack and beginning to read.

"No wonder it's so warm down there," Neville mused.

"You look worried, Neville," Hermione said.

"Well, it's odd. I didn't do anything special to it to make it grow. I wonder if—hey, Harry, you talking to Zabini at all?"

"No."

"I guess I'll have to, then. She hasn't mentioned any problems in Herbology."

"Perhaps she doesn't consider the growth rate a problem," Hermione suggested.

Ron stared at Ginny's bracelet, watching the little flames lick her wrist. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"No."

"Great. Everyone's in a mood," the redhead grumbled.

The rift between Harry and Ron had translated into a grim atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room. Everyone kept out of the Seventh Years' separate ways, and no one mentioned the altercation in the changing rooms. As most of the other Seventh Years were too busy studying for their N.E.W.T.s to care, the fight had lasted much longer than it normally would have, but Hermione was tired of it.

"Right. This is ridiculous. You two should make up already."

"Leave it, Hermione," Ron said.

"Sure, he won't apologize, so there's no problem, is there?" Harry shot back.

"Don't start, you two," Ginny ordered.

Ron and Harry remained resolute in their silence.

"Well, I'm going to the library," Hermione said, shoving her books into her pack. "I'm sick to death of all the tension."

"Want me to come with?"

"No, Ron. I don't. In fact, I don't think you'll be coming any time soon," the witch said, striding off.

"Woah. Did Granger just make a sexual reference?" Dean asked, sounding genuinely astonished.

"Shut up, Thomas!"

"'Shut up, Thomas'," Dean mimicked Ron, which made the other boy's face redden so deeply that his freckles were lost in the flush of color.

Harry decided it would be a good time to leave, and, with Neville in tow, exited the room and walked toward the kitchens.

"So, Zabini's nice, isn't she?"

"What do you mean, 'nice'?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Just what I said. I like her. She's good with plants—brilliant, apparently—and, you know, fetching. I was thinking that I might ask her for a butterbeer."

 _Shit. Great. Wonderful. Neville has a hell of a lot more in common with Blaise than I do. They're Herbology partners. And he doesn't seem to have any trouble talking to her_.

"Harry?"

" _What_?"

"Would you mind if I—"

"It's not up to me, now is it?"

"I know you like her . . . ."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't like _me_ , Neville. Do what you want."

"Right then, I will. Thanks, Harry."

They entered the kitchens to find Zacharias Smith, Susan Bones, and the Patils studying at a table laden with treats, house elves hovering around them.

"Oh, it is Harry Potter! Dobby is happy to see him!"

"Hi, Dobby," Harry said disconsolately, as Neville joined the others.

"Dobby would like to say things to Harry Potter alone."

"You would?"

"Yes, Harry Potter. Come with Dobby," the house elf said, tugging on Harry's sleeve and drawing him further into the kitchens.

"What's wrong?"

"Harry Potter is wrong. Dobby knows that Harry Potter is liking Blaise Zabini and not being very successful in his wooing. House elves, we knows how to woo, and Dobby is wanting to help Harry Potter."

Biting back a rude comment about Dobby's 'help' of him in the past, Harry said, "Really, Dobby, that's nice—but I don't need any help, I promise you."

"Dobby hates to say it, but Harry Potter is _wrong_ ," the diminutive being said, his eyes wide and sincere. "Dobby thinks Harry Potter misunderstood about the faeries and the Christmas dinner. Dobby meant it to be romantic for a wizard and witch, but Harry Potter did not kiss Blaise Zabini. Dobby thinks that Harry Potter may be . . . ."

"What? What do you think I might be?"

The house elf sighed. "Stupid," he said, cringing.

 _Got it in one_. "Look, I'm not . . . I'm not good with witches—with Blaise—and you should just forget about trying to help me."

The house elf floated up so that he could look into the boy's eyes, and reached out to pet his arm in a reassuring way. "Dobby understands that even great wizards is not being good at everything, Harry Potter, but Dobby must help, and help Harry Potter Dobby will," he said, before winking out of sight.

 _Oh, no. Oh, fuck, no_ , Harry thought, feeling his stomach drop to his knees. _Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse_!

"Neville!" Parvati exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

Harry turned in time to see Neville clutch his stomach.

"It hurts. I feel . . . dizzy," he said, sliding to the floor.

"Dobby!" Harry yelled.

But the house elf did not appear.

A tiny hand tugged on Harry's arm. "Winky is knowing what Dobby is doing. Dobby says that Harry Potter has to go on a date with the Blaise, and then Dobby will make the Neville all better."

"What? But he can't _do_ that!"

"Dobby is a bad house elf," Winky said, sniffing, "and he is doing many things he should not."

"But," Harry began to say, watching the others take Neville out of the kitchens, "but what if she says no?"

"Winky is thinking Dobby will not care, Harry Potter."

"Fuck." _I've got to go to the dungeons. I can't bother Professor Dumbledore with this, can I_?

He never made it there, however, because the heat from the Dragon Fire Ficuses was oppressive, and Snape was on the warpath.

"GET THESE OUT OF HERE!" he was thundering, as several Slytherin girls, none of them Blaise, rushed down the main dungeon corridor carrying the plants. "If I find out who is responsible for this menacing foliage, I will shred him or her alive!"

Harry hot-footed it back up to the upper floors. Once there, he decided it might be a good time to visit Hedwig, who had moved to a high perch in the rafters of the Owlery with Silvio.

"Hey there, you two. How's the family planning coming?"

Hedwig hooted proudly at him. Silvio spun his head. Harry sat down on the windowsill and worried.

After awhile, he noticed an unfamiliar auburn-feathered owl watching him curiously from a high perch, a large pot containing a Fire Ficus—a Dragon Fire Ficus—sitting next to it.

"You're very pretty. Who do you belong to?" _One of the Slytherins, I'll bet_.

The owl issued a short series of angry sounding hoots at him.

"Ah, you're a female owl. I should have known. I'll just shut up now, shall I?"

The bird ruffled out its feathers and flew down to the other side of the windowsill. And then it shimmered, stretched, and formed the shape of a curvaceous young woman with piles of shining hair.

"Blaise!"

"Hoot," she said, appearing pleased that she had so startled him.

"You're an Animagus!"

"Obviously," she replied, picking bits of bird fluff out of her hair. "It's certainly messy in here, isn't it?"

"Are you registered?"

"Are you _mad_?"

"When did you become an—"

"You aren't going to tell anyone about my plant, are you? Snape's furious."

"Yeah, I know. I was just down there. And of course I won't say anything—but are you sure it won't catch the Owlery on fire?"

"It won't. It's bespelled. I'm amazed at you, Potter. You're always walking up here just as I've changed. You really didn't know?"

"I really didn't know, and I wish you'd call me Harry," he said, seeing that she was wearing her uncle's torc. "Do you always wear that?"

Blaise's hand flew to her throat to caress the gold around it. "Yes, Harry, I do."

"I'm impressed."

"By the torc?"

"No, by your being an Animagus. That must have taken some doing." _She said my name. Maybe she isn't mad at me anymore. Perhaps she will go out with me. Poor Neville_! _She_ has _to go out with me_. "I'd love to be able to fly without a broom."

"It _is_ fun. I've been, well, I've had a lot of time to practice, haven't I?"

 _Nice one, Potter. Now you've reminded her that you got her thrown off the Slytherin Reserves for awhile_. "God, I'm sorry, Blaise. I didn't mean for my present to—"

"It's all right. Professor Snape made Malfoy take me back, didn't he? And I prefer wings to broomsticks, anyway. I also like your present, Harry," she said in a small voice.

He smiled. "You do? I suppose you must, seeing as how you've hidden it from Snape."

"My mother wouldn't send me mine from home."

"Oh. I'm sorry about that, too."

"You're sorry about a lot of things, aren't you?"

"Even Malfoy."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I shouldn't have done that to him. If it makes you feel any better, I'm not sure I actually meant to do it. I was just mad."

"That doesn't make me feel better. Harry, with that kind of power . . . you can't get mad. You'll really hurt someone, you know."

"Yeah, I know. I've been practicing to control it."

"Have you? Well, good. You won't tell? I think Professor Snape suspects, but he hasn't said anything."

 _I'll bet he isn't the only one_ , Harry thought, thinking about Dumbledore. "You did it to escape—from your family—if you had to, didn't you?"

"Yes. Uncle 'Carlo suggested it. It's too bad he didn't take his own advice about always having an escape plan," Blaise said, bitterness coloring her tone.

"Why do you trust me? I know that you don't like me, and—" The tears that welled up in the girl's eyes at his words stopped Harry's mouth. _What did I say_? he thought, reaching out a hand toward Blaise in concern.

She took it. "You think I don't like you?"

"Well, you haven't spoken to me in weeks. What am I supposed to think?"

"I . . . you scared me, Harry, when you did that to Malfoy. I thought it was dangerous to be around you."

"I would _never_ hurt you, Blaise. Never," he said emphatically, lightly squeezing her hand. "I don't want to scare you. I'm sorry."

"Can you truly not help yourself?"

"My mouth, it's—"

"I didn't mean your mouth," the girl said, wiping her tears away with her free hand. "I meant your magic."

"Oh. Well, I usually do okay, and Professor Dumbledore's helping me get better at it."

"Helping you learn to kill, you mean."

Harry did not have an answer to the question.

Blaise sighed and retracted her hand. "Sometimes I feel sorry for myself, and then I remember what _your_ life is like."

"My life. Yeah. It's been . . . interesting. But I can't really complain. I've got friends, people who . . . who love me, and I'm happy here. And . . . and I like you, Blaise," Harry said, his chest tight. _Please don't mind me saying so_.

"Do you?" she whispered, looking out at him from behind a thick lock of hair.

The Gryffindor reached out to smooth it back behind one of her ears, leaning forward without actually intending to do so, and found himself perilously close to the Slytherin's mouth.

"Har—"

Just hearing her voice was permission enough, the boy decided, and then all thought left him as the light delicious press of Blaise's lips met his own. When hers parted, it seemed wrong not to slide his tongue inside of her mouth and stroke hers, tentatively at first, and then with more exploratory zeal. He found the low murmur of approval humming from Blaise into him intoxicating, and soon his hands wound through her hair to pull her more deeply into their kiss.

The sweetness of it, the headiness, soon became more urgent as Harry's trousers tightened and his breath came faster, and there was a voice, perhaps his own, whispering to him: _Take her. Use her._ Consume _her_. "No!" he cried, pulling violently away from her.

"But—"

Harry's voice sounded ragged and foreign to him as he ground out between clenched teeth, "You have to go. Now, Blaise. Please, just go."

"You liked it. I _know_ you did. Why are you—your scar! Harry, what's wrong?"

"Get. Out. _Go_. Go _now_ ," he ordered, focusing on the pulsing pain in his forehead, and not the rapine images in his mind. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" he shrieked, trying to channel his fear for Blaise and his rage at Voldemort into the open bond between himself and the Dark Lord toward that wizard.

Blaise did not go. Instead, she threw herself at Harry, seizing his hair and pulling his head toward hers, bruising their lips with the force of her kiss.

 _NO_! Harry screamed in his mind. He could feel himself respond to Voldemort's tempting, and wanted nothing more than to rip into the girl who's body was pressing his into the stone.

 _Then do it, boy. Take her. She wants it. You can have her. You can have anything you want if only you'll take it_!

A large hand clasped Harry's shoulder then and roughly jerked him away from Blaise toward the floor.

"Get out of here, Zabini. It isn't safe for you," Ron Weasley's strained voice said gruffly. "GO!"

"He's my friend, too!"

"Then be one and leave. Can't you see he's fighting something?"

"But—"

"Blaise!"

 _Don't let the boy interfere_! _She'll get away_! Stop _her, Potter_. 

"Getoutofmyheadoutofit _outofit_ OUTOFIT!" he screamed, trying not to look at the images of Blaise that the Dark Lord was sending, trying not to _want_ what he was being urged to do.

"It's Voldemort. I can't—"

"Get out of here, or I'll throw you out, Zabini!"

The clatter of shoes over the boards of the feather-strewn floor and his best friend's voice calling his name brought Harry back to himself. 

"Harry? Harry, you okay, mate? Harry, you in there? You alone in there? Harry?" Ron asked, kneeling down before the other boy and peering anxiously into his face.

"Ron," he replied hoarsely, "did I hurt—"

"No, you didn't. You didn't hurt Blaise, Harry. She's gone."

"Shit. He wanted me to hurt her."

"Voldemort."

"Yeah," Harry said, sitting up and hanging his head so that Ron would not see the tears in his eyes. "Fuck."

"But you got rid of him, right? That's good, isn't it?"

"None of this is good! I only just kissed her, and Voldemort tried to make me hurt her!"

"But you didn't hurt her Harry. You stopped yourself. You stopped _him_."

"What if I can't do it again?"

"You'll be able to do it again, mate," Ron said with a certainty that Harry envied. "But I think we'd best get you to Professor Dumbledore. He should know about this."

"I . . . I _can't_. I can't tell him about _this_."

"You have to, Harry. You know that you do. If you don't . . . ."

"You'll tell him?" the boy asked, looking at Ron in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, but this isn't just about you. It's about Voldemort. And Blaise. And all of us. I'm _sorry_ , Harry, but you know I'm right."

"Crap. I'm going to die—a virgin—and he's going to win."

"Don't say that!"

"Why the hell not?" Harry spat, jumping to his feet. "It's true! He gets into my _head_. He makes me . . . want to _do_ things. Who knows how long he's been in there, spying, pushing me? It's about 'all of us', you said—it isn't about _me_. I don't have any con—"

The wet sound of Ron's fist striking Harry's mouth stopped the boy's ranting, and he fell backward and would have fallen if the taller boy had not have caught his arms to prevent it.

"Why'd you do that for?"

Ron folded his arms around Harry and pulled him into a fierce hug. It felt weird, weird but good, too, and Harry gave into it and issued a sigh that threatened to pull tears with it, but managed, with great effort, not to cry as he hugged his friend back.

"You um, you can cry if you want."

" _No_ ," Harry said, his voice thick.

" _Good_ —I mean, sure, whatever," Ron replied, giving Harry a squeeze and then releasing him. "Sorry about that punch, mate, but I hate listening to your, 'My Life Sucks, Hear Me Whine' speech. I'm not saying that it doesn't, of course, but do you really have time to feel sorry for yourself just now?"

"That hurt, you prat," Harry replied, rubbing his mouth. "But . . . thanks, and sorry. I didn't know that I um, whined."

"I s'pose you've got plenty of reason to, really," Ron said, pulling his wand and healing Harry's face.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Dumbledore?"

"You're pushy. What are you doing up here, anyway?"

"It's not like I'm kissing anyone, is it? Besides, I figured you'd be up here and wanted to patch things up. I don't like it when we fight."

"Neither do I. Did . . . did you threaten Blaise?"

"It seemed like the right thing to do at the time," Ron said sheepishly. "So, how was it?"

Harry flushed. "Um, good, you know, until . . . ."

"Right. Dumbledore."

"It's embarrassing," Harry protested.

"I'm sure it is," Ron said, crossing his arms.

Harry knew enough about his friend to know that there would be no point to argue further. "Right. Dumbledore."


	6. That Inconvenient Prophesy

Quidditch was all Harry could think about in the days following his discussion with the Headmaster. Quidditch and Blaise's mouth. The second week of March found him high over the pitch, floating next to the Slytherin—who had played Seeker since Malfoy's disappearance from the school two games ago—and pretending not to talk to her as he scanned the air for the Golden Snitch.

"Don't look so worried, Harry. We've plenty of time to chat, you know."

"Don't sound so confident, Blaise. I'm going to catch the Snitch."

"No, you're not. . . . How's your head?"

"Quiet, except for me, that is."

"Good."

"Do you know why Malfoy's left?"

"I've heard rumors."

"The same ones I've heard."

"I doubt that."

"Why?"

Blaise flew a little away from him, under him, scanning the air and then returning to her previous position. "You get to talk to more people than I do, don't you?"

"No one knows anything," Harry said, thinking, _Does she know about the Order_? and then ducking as a bludger came flying toward him.

"Nice."

"Thanks."

"Most of the Slytherins, us, think that his father called him away because an attack on the school is coming."

"That's what we, the Gryffindors, think, as well. . . . Where is it?"

"The Golden Snitch?" Blaise asked, her voice deceptively sweet.

"Yeah."

"I've been holding it ever since your rather spectacular fake-out dive, Harry."

"What?"

"I caught it with my robe—no one saw."

He turned to look at her, incredulity overspreading his features. "Then why didn't you—"

"What? And miss a perfectly good chance to talk to you privately?"

 _She_ does _like me_ , Harry thought, feeling a wave of masculine pride rush through him. "Wow. That's pretty slick, Miss Zabini."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," she replied, smiling prettily. "Look, I . . . I've been really worried about you, and . . . matters in general. It's going to happen _soon_ , Harry, and I'm scared."

"Me, too," he admitted.

Suddenly, Lee Jordan's voice boomed out, "The announcer urges the Gryffindor Seeker to move his arse, already!"

"Shit. Um, you'd best pretend to catch it, now."

"Right. Owlery after dinner?"

"Yeah."

Gryffindor lost one hundred fifty-eight points _behind_ Slytherin, but Harry couldn't be arsed to care.

"Snape's gone," Ron informed him that night at dinner.

"What?"

"Gone. Left during his last class today."

"He received an owl and tore out of the classroom," Hermione added.

 _Madame Rosmerta_. "Wow. I wonder . . . ."

"What?" Ginny asked, for once sitting with her own house.

Hermione furrowed her brow and said, "You know, we probably shouldn't be speculating about this _here_."

Harry was grateful to his friend for thinking she understood everything, ate quickly, and then went back to the dorm to retrieve his broom.

"Why'd you have that?" Blaise asked, as he entered the Owlery.

"You know about Snape and . . . ."

" _Mrs_. Snape? Yes. It came up."

"Right. You talk to him."

"It's not that difficult to do, you know."

"If you're a Slytherin."

"Do you think she's having the baby?"

"Yep. Wanna go see?"

"We'll get expelled!"

"Nope. I'll be invisible," Harry said, unfurling his invisibility cloak with a flourish, "and you'll be an _owl_."

As he followed Blaise to Hogsmeade, Harry was grateful that she could not fly in her Animagus form during matches. They hovered above the Broomsticks until Blaise found the right window and hooted at him, and then he joined the girl in hovering outside of it.

With his sleeves rolled up and not wearing any robes or even a jacket, the Potions master, the boy decided, looked positively indecent as he leaned over Rosmerta lying in her bed. A medi-witch hovered on her other side, and bathed the publican's face with a flannel.

"Wow, she's having a hard time of it, isn't she? I, um, I think maybe we shouldn't be staring in like this. I mean, it's private, isn't it?"

Blaise hooted at him, but did not move from her position on the end of Harry's broom handle.

The muffled sound of an argument between Snape and the medi-witch filtered through the window, and then the wizard stormed out of the room, returning again in short order to lay a kiss on his wife's forehead before leaving again.

"Um, Blaise?" Harry whispered, beginning to feel uncomfortable as the medi-witch moved Rosmerta's covers up over her knees. "I . . . I can't watch this, really. I'm going back."

The Animagus followed him dutifully, but swooped low as they approached the Shrieking Shack and flew into the building.

"Okay," Harry said, following her.

Blaise was herself again when he shut the door.

"You _are_ a gentleman," she said, laughing.

"Yeah, well, I just couldn't—"

"Shut up and kiss me, Harry."

"Oh. Oh, sure," he said, steeling his mind against any unwanted visitors.

This time, no voice interrupted his osculatory efforts, and before he knew it, he and Blaise had tumbled to the floor and were kissing frantically.

"You feel so _good_ ," he said, running his hands up under Blaise's jumper.

"So do you," she replied, moving her hips into his.

"Sorry about that. I just—"

"Don't apologize for how you feel, Harry. I like it. I want you, too."

"That's terribly charming," a voice said from the shadows.

"What? Who's there?" Harry said starting, noting that Blaise's wand was already in her hand before turning and looking into the darkness.

Peter Pettigrew emerged from it, his wand raised. "I didn't expect you, either of you, but now that you're here . . . ."

Harry reached for his wand, found it missing, and wandlessly cast, " _Petrificus Totalus_!" but the spell hit the wall as Pettigrew shrank into his Animagus form.

Without a word, Blaise took her owl form and swooped after the scurrying rat, seizing it in her talons. 

"Don't kill him!" Harry yelled, as the rat began to twist and stretch.

The owl opened its beak and bit down on the creature's neck, severing it from its body with a snap. Its head and body hit the floor with a squelching sound and then Pettigrew's decapitated form appeared—his head, Harry knew, was somewhere, but it had rolled away, and he did not want to look for it.

"Oh, God! Blaise—Blaise?" he called, as the Animagus flew out of one of the broken, poorly boarded windows. "Blaise!" he yelled, throwing open the door and rushing out into the night.

But the girl was gone.

"Shit!" the boy yelled. _Oh, God. Pettigrew_.

He was not sorry the wizard was dead, but he had no idea how to explain what had happened.

 _I can't tell anyone that Blaise is an Animagus. I can't tell them that we were spying on Snape—no one's supposed to know about Rosmerta_. He knew that Dumbledore would know, and that he could probably be trusted with Blaise's secret. _But . . . but how can I explain what we were doing here_? _And where did she go_? he asked himself, reentering the shack. "It doesn't make her a murderer," he said to the corpse.

 _That is precisely what it_ does _make her, boy_ , Voldemort's voice said in his head. _And a decisive one, at that. I'm impressed with your girlfriend_.

"Shut up!"

"Temper, Potter. Really, there are better places to arrange an assignation—more private ones, at that. Trust you to know how to treat a young lady."

Every muscle in Harry's body tensed at the spoken sound of the Dark Lord's voice. "Wh—where are you?" he demanded, attempting to keep his own steady and looking around.

There was no one there.

The sound of laughter, thick with phlegm or blood, rose from the floor, and Harry looked down in horror to see Peter Pettigrew's disembodied head speaking to him.

"My loyal servants," the head told him, as it slid across the floor toward the body, "do not die, Potter."

"Fuck."

"Apparently not," the head said, beginning to reattach itself to the body. "You have no talent in that direction, do you?"

 _This isn't happening. It's not. It_ can't _be happening_.

"Oh, it's happening, and now, boy. Can't you hear it?" the body said, rising from the floor and shambling toward him.

Harry backed away as Pettigrew's lifeless eyes focused on him, his dead body raising its arms. In the distance, he heard what sounded like an explosion. "What's happening?"

"What's happening is that a little boy is being frightened out of his wits by a simple display of my power, power that he is too weak to seek for himself, while his world ends," the corpse said, before an unnatural laugh forced its way out of the thing's lungs.

Another explosion sounded, and Harry thought he saw something flicker in Pettigrew's eyes. "Y—you're not alive, but you're not dead, either, are you?" he said, darting out of the semi-animated corpse's way as it lunged at him. "You don't want this, do you, Peter?" he said, hoping to rouse whatever was left of the wizard's mind by using his first name. "Peter Pettigrew, you don't want this!"

"K—kill you, Harry."

"No!" he yelled, jumping away from the body. "No, Peter. I saved you. You can't kill me!"

The thing's legs stopped moving and its arms dropped.

 _Nice try, Mr. Potter, but it won't work. He is_ my _creature, not yours. They are all my creatures, even Snape's whelp yet to be born_.

"NO!" Harry screamed, throwing a burst of magic—uncontrolled but focused—at the confused, half-living thing that was Peter Pettigrew.

The body burst into ashes and a cloud rose in the room, knocking Harry back.

 _Oh, very well done, indeed, boy—but it won't save you. It will avail you nothing. I have come, and there will be none to defeat me_ , Lord Voldemort said in his mind.

Without thinking about it, Harry dropped his every mental defense against the Dark Lord and reached out through their metaphysical bond to find him. He felt the wizard shrink from his search, but he had him. "I know where you are!" he exclaimed, triumphant, for he thought he could feel the other wizard's fear.

 _And I, you_ , Voldemort said, as a burning pain caused sparks of color to fly behind Harry's suddenly squeezed eyelids. _How kind of you to let me in_.

None of Professor Dumbledore's training had prepared Harry for what was happening to him. He felt as if water were pouring into his body as if he were a cup, but he knew it was the Dark Lord's magic, his essence, and he felt his consciousness begin to contract into the farthest corner of his being. _No, no, no_! he silently screamed, pushing back. But there were only two directions in which he could travel—within and under, or out and in. Harry chose escape, lest he be buried, and in the time it took to blink his own eyes one last time, he was looking out of unfamiliar ones in the place in which he had discovered Voldemort.

A ring of hooded and masked figures stared back at him.

 _Fuck_! _I'm in his body_! Harry realized, astonished and terrified. He raised a hand, and the Death Eaters shrank back. _Do something. Do anything_! Harry told himself, glancing down to see that he was standing in some sort of ring of power. _Oh, God—they were planning on this_! "Damn it! It's not working!" he yelled in frustration, trying not to react at hearing Voldemort's voice speak his words.

"My lord," a feminine voice said deferentially, "you must give it time. The brat is weak. You will have him!"

"Bellatrix Lestrange," _you murderous bi_ —"you . . . you have served me well."

"Thank you, my Lord Voldemort."

"Pettigrew is lost to us. The boy is nothing. I do not require his body or his magic to win this day," Harry said, calling upon every B movie he had ever seen to provide inspiration for how he felt Voldemort would speak to his minions.

"Of course not, my lord."

 _Oh, thank God that worked_ , Harry thought, realizing that he was trapped in the circle. _I need them to leave so that I can escape_. "And I grow tired of waiting!"

An unfamiliar male Death Eater, his voice muffled by the mask he wore, protested, "But, Lord Vol—"

" _Crucio_!" Harry cast, his fear giving him all the will he needed to work the spell. "Dare you interrupt your lord?"

"No, my lord!" a chorus of voices rang out. "Never!"

"The attack has begun. Let us finish it. To the castle!"

"Lead the way!" Bellatrix called out, over the screams of the one Harry had bespelled.

" _Finite Incantatum_!" he cast, and then said, "all of you know your parts in this. Go. I shall sweep behind you and . . . and savor your efforts! _None_ shall defeat us! _All_ will fall before us! GO!" he shrieked, and was surprised to see the Death Eaters stream out of the clearing of the Forbidden Forest toward Hogwarts—lining themselves up neatly in the process.

They never had a chance to repel the Death Curse he cast next.

As the Death Eaters fell to the ground, Harry saw a great auburn-feathered owl testing the boundary of the magical barrier.

"No! Blaise—it's Harry! It's me, Blaise. Stop!" he cried, as the power protecting him lashed out at her.

The owl rose and circled him.

"I swear! It's me—you caught the Golden Snitch so that we could talk—you always wear your uncle's torc! It's Harry, Blaise! Voldemort took my body!"

The owl swooped toward the ground, and suddenly Blaise was standing there, staring at him in horror. "Harry? Oh, Harry!"

"Blaise? I, um, I don't know how to get out of this . . . circle, and I've got to get to the castle."

The girl moved toward him and smudged the chalk of the magical circle with one foot. The barrier Harry had felt but not seen dispersed, and he rushed forward to embrace Blaise.

"No!" she exclaimed, leaping back. "Oh, oh, Harry—I'm sorry, but—"

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to hug me, either," he said ruefully. "Come on, we've got—"

"You can't, Harry, not like _that_ —they kill you!"

"Well, I can't stay here. Hogwarts is under attack!"

"You're Voldemort."

"I am not!"

"No, I mean, his people will _think_ you are. You could . . . um, you could give them orders—the Death Eaters, I mean."

"I . . . I guess I could. Did you see—"

"There are Death Eaters in Hogsmeade, and Dementors, too. I didn't fly toward the castle."

"Dementors?" Harry asked, panic infusing his tone. "Shit! Blaise, Voldemort's still Voldemort even though he's in my body. He'll have control of them now, won't he?"

"Th—that's likely. Oh, Harry, Professor Snape!"

A feeling of dread rolled through the boy's body. He looked at the bodies lying dead and wondered if one of them might be Snape. "Blaise . . . ."

The Slytherin seemed to understand, and without a word began ripping masks off of corpses, but when her hand actually touched the flesh of one of the bodies, something truly awful and unexpected happened: it began to move.

"Ah!" Blaise yelled. "It's . . . it's—"

"The torc."

"What?"

"I think it's the torc," Harry said calmly, though he had no idea how he could remain so. 

The corpse struggled to its feet and appeared to wait.

"I . . . I think it wants an order, Blaise."

"That's . . . disgusting."

"You," Harry said, addressing the animated body. "You, um, sit down!"

Nothing happened.

"Oh, _you're_ wearing the torc. _You_ have to tell it to do something."

"How do you know—"

"Blaise! _Do_ it. We don't have a lot of time."

"Sit!"

The Death Eater sat.

"Good. That's good. Look, touch the rest of them. We can use them to fight Voldemort—me," Harry said, feeling desperate.

Blaise immediately began touching the other bodies, but said, "You're _you_ , Harry, _not_ the thing that has your body."

 _Yeah, but I might be stuck with this body, and you won't touch it_ , the boy thought, before chastising himself for being selfish in the middle of a war. "Right. Lead them back to the Shrieking Shack. We've got to try and stop Voldemort before he gets to the castle."

"We should try and find Professor Snape if we can. Someone should know what's happened," Blaise said, touching each body in turn. "Sit!" she ordered the reanimated corpses.

They sat.

"Right. What now?"

"We'll head toward Hogsmeade first and find Snape, and then I'll go after Voldemort," Harry said, sounding more decisive than he felt. _This is really happening. No time—I have to_ —

"How do you know what to do?" Blaise asked, ordering the Death Eaters to rise and follow them as she and Harry rushed down the path.

"I don't."

It took longer than Harry wished to skirt the edge of the Forbidden Forest and find the path into Hogsmeade, not least because there were several groups of dangerous creatures to fight through, and the centaurs to consider.

A huge female centaur leading a herd her kind, all looking savage, all bloodied, attempted to stop their progress. "Halt, vile creature!" she directed at Harry.

"He's not the Dark Lord!" Blaise called. "He's Harry Potter in Voldemort's body!"

"Order the Death Eaters face down," Harry said quickly, raising his hands. _I don't want to hurt them_ , he thought, _but I can't let them stop me. Think_! 

Before he could decide what to do, the Death Eaters dropped to the ground, and the lead centaur ordered her herd to stop moving forward. "What's this? Some sort of wizard's trick?"

"It's no trick—I've taken Voldemort's body, and he has mine. I'm trying to get to him. I have to stop him before he reaches Hogwarts!"

"How is this pos—"

"There isn't time to tell you! Please, let us pass."

"I wouldn't be with him if he were Voldemort. Please, listen to Harry!"

The centaur leader appeared to consider their requests, and then said, "Destroy these vermin as a sign you are who you say you are."

Harry protested. "But—"

"I don't know how to," Blaise said. "I touched them after Harry did kill them, and because of this," she said, holding up her torc, "they . . . they sort of came back."

"I know nothing of such matters, but if you will not destroy them, we will destroy you."

"Drop the torc, Blaise," Harry urged. "That may work."

She did as he bid her, and the Death Eaters appeared to . . . deflate. As soon as this occurred, the herd rushed the bodies to trample them, and Blaise snatched up her torc and followed Harry away from the destruction of the bodies.

"Wh—what . . . will we . . . do now?" she asked, running so quickly it was difficult to speak.

"I . . . don't know, but . . . but you should probably . . . hide."

"Where?" she demanded, stopping. "Harry, wait!"

"What?" he asked, turning to look over his shoulder at her.

"Why are we running when we can Apparate?"

"Good question. Right, come here."

Clutching each other, Harry Disapparated them both to the stables of the Three Broomsticks. No one but horses greeted them, horses and the sounds of battle—and a powerful, chilling cold. Blaise leapt away from him at once.

"That'll be the Dementors, then," Harry said, shivering. "How'd he get them here so _fast_?"

"Doesn't matter," Blaise replied, climbing up into the hayloft to look out. "Harry, they've surrounded the tavern. I . . . I think I could fly into it through the chimney—or a window—I have to try!"

"Wait! Blaise? Blaise!" he called, climbing up after her with some difficulty; he was not used to having such long limbs, or being so tall.

He saw Blaise in owl form flying like a shot toward Rosmerta's window, and then beat against it with her talons. He also saw a Dementor floating toward her.

" _Expecto Patronum_!" he cast without thinking as the window opened to admit her and the Dementor turned on him.

Suddenly, there were several more of the eerie beings clustered in front of the stables. Harry called upon his Patronus repeatedly, levitating himself—he had no idea how—out of the window and after the creatures. A Death Eater rushed toward him on a broomstick, and Harry waved a hand at him calling forth a burst of air that knocked the rider from his perch and sent him crashing to the ground.

"Potter!" he heard Snape call to him.

"Professor—look out!" Harry yelled, throwing a killing curse at the Death Eater that had just rounded the building and was raising a wand at the man.

The person dropped, and Harry willed himself into the open window, coming to land unsteadily on his feet before Snape.

"What the hell happened?"

"I don't know, but he's in _my_ body—in the Shrieking Shack—and I've got to stop him!"

"If you go outside wearing that, the Aurors will try to destroy you."

"What other choice do I have? No one _knows_ , Sir."

"Albus knows, or he will, soon. Blaise is fire-calling the castle."

"I can't _wait_ , Professor."

"Potter, what is it that you propose to _do_?"

"You're asking me? I—look, can you and the others defend this place? I don't have any time to talk. If I can get to the castle—"

"Severus!" Albus Dumbledore said, his head appearing in the fire. "Is Harry with you?"

"Yes, Albus. The Dark Lord has—"

"Taken his body. Yes, I know. Lucius Malfoy appears to be leading the attack on the castle, and—"

"What? But he's—"

" _Not_ in Azkaban, Harry. Oh, oh, dear. Harry," the man said as he saw the boy. "You must find your body—and Voldemort—at once. I've explained to Shacklebolt what has occurred. He is issuing orders not to attack 'you', but I think it likely that Malfoy is aware of the switch, so any attempt by you to play the Dark Lord's part at Hogwarts would be unsuccessful. Find Voldemort Harry. Find him and stop him," the Headmaster ordered before his head disappeared.

"Thanks," both Harry and Snape said as one.

"Well," Harry remarked, " _that_ was helpful."

Blaise opened the door and walked in. "Harry, I've got to get to the castle. Professor Dumbledore wants me to help Longbottom bespell my Dragon Fire Ficus to surround Hogwarts. He says that the Dementors can't stand its heat."

"Blaise, I—be _careful_."

Her body began to transform. "You, too, Harry. Get _your_ body back, you hear? I won't—"

Whatever the Slytherin had been about to say was lost in a flurry of hooting as she flew toward the window. Snape opened it with a flick of his wand, and then she was gone.

"I expect," the wizard said, "that Miss Zabini will not . . . have you in that form. There is as good of an inducement to battle as ever I've heard. Good luck, Potter."

"You, too, Sir," Harry said, wondering if Voldemort's cheeks were as red as he felt.


	7. That Destiny of His

It was awful, sneaking through Hogsmeade and trying to avoid the Dementors. Harry felt a rushing through his veins—adrenaline and fear—and could not shake the feeling of surrealism that was his presence in an unfamiliar body, but he pressed on. The soul-sucking creatures seemed to be drifting toward the direction of the Shrieking Shack, though he caught a few with his Patronus as they were attempting to break into buildings, and drove them ahead of himself. The Death Eaters he had seen seemed to be remaining in the vicinity of the Three Broomsticks.

He went toward the train tracks on the outskirts of Hogsmeade and followed them toward and partially around the shack, approaching it from the side. And then he saw himself— _Voldemort_!—standing on the roof, his back turned on his position. Harry wrapped his fingers around the Dark Lord's wand and tried to decide what to do as a sheet of ice began to form over the shack. The Dementors had arrived, all of them, from the looks of the ground and the building, and the boy was terrified.

 _Fear, Potter, is a weakness_. "Take him!" Voldemort screamed, and then a cloud of back robes rose in the sky.

 _Shit_ , Harry thought, levitating himself. _This would be easier on a broomstick_.

Without warning, the Dark Lord's wand lengthened, thickened, and sprouted a brush, and Harry found himself in possession of a broomstick.

"Right, that's cool," he said, throwing his leg over the wood and kicking off into the sky.

He flew straight up, fast, and then circled around to see if the Dementors had followed him. They had, but they moved through the air as slowly as if it were water.

"Damn it! They've got to go faster!" Harry exclaimed, thinking, _I want them to follow me straight into the earth, but if they don't go any faster_. . . . "If they won't go any faster, I'll just have to bring the ground to _them_."

Taking a deep breath, he charged the 'death' of Dementors and scattered them, a procedure he repeated until they were milling closely together to prevent it, and then he began rising into the air again. When he had them, hundreds of them, he thought, right on his tail, he swooped toward the ground and willed it to rise.

Great chunks of earth flew into the sky, striking the Dementors and knocking them out of the air.

"It's working!" he crowed before rushing the creatures again.

He managed to subdue most of them in this way, but the effort was exhausting. By the time he flew back toward the Shrieking Shack, Voldemort was gone.

"NO!" _Where_ are _you_?

"Right here, boy," he heard himself say, and then he felt hands—his hands—on his neck as Voldemort Apparated onto the broomstick behind him and began to throttle him.

It was a mistake.

"Wha—no!" his voice yelled as the hands fell away and his broomstick became heavier.

 _Oh, God_! _He can't touch me no matter what body he's in_! Harry thought, frightened by the prospect of remaining in Voldemort's body forever if his was destroyed.

He did the only thing he could think of and flew upside down, and watched as the Dark Lord went crashing into the earth.

 _No, that's_ my _body_! _That's me_ , Harry thought, flying after Voldemort.

Another explosion from the direction of the castle erupted as he landed and ran to his broken body.

"Healing spells—I don't know any sodding _healing_ spells!" he yelled.

One of his eyes opened and glared redly at him, and Harry felt a frisson of fear travel up his spine.

"Give it back," Voldemort said.

The boy did not know if the wizard meant his body or his power, but it seemed clear to him that he would have to give something if he wanted to take anything of his own back. _That's how I ended up in his body in the first place, isn't it_? he thought, steeling himself for what was to come.

It came quickly—the sensation of being pulled—and he laid one hand on 'his' chest, causing the Dark Lord to shriek and attempt to move, but he was unable to do so.

"You want your body back, do you?"

Voldemort only screamed louder.

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then give me," Harry began to say, stopping when he felt the chill approach again. _Dementors. Good_. "Fine, take it!" he said, pushing himself forward through their bond.

The moment he was in his own, broken body again, an alien screech emerged from Voldemort's mouth—a screech that was abruptly cut off as three Dementors descended upon him and grasped him in their skeletal claws. They did not give him time to rescind his earlier order, and soon, the very essence of the Dark Lord was being sucked out by one of the creatures in an obscene Kiss.

Harry felt a pressure against his mind, and he knew the wizard was attempting to retake his body, but he was ready for this. He built a wall of metaphysical bricks between his mind and Voldemort's and prevented the man from forcing his consciousness back inside of his mind.

But just as quickly as Voldemort had returned to his body, he left it again—and entered one of the Dementors, turning on the other fiends as his proper body fell to the ground and scattering them with an unnatural hiss before looking at Harry and throwing back his hood.

"No!" Harry screamed, looking away. _Don't look_!

Harry looked away, focused on a fleeing Dementor, and forced himself without thinking into the creature. _Power he knows not_ , he thought, viewing the world as one conglomeration of gray and white. _If he can do it, so can I_. 

His true body was a pure white splotch on the ground, as was Voldemort's, and the other milling Dementors' were gray. But the grayish being floating toward him, he knew, was the Dark Lord. _Wait for it_ , he thought, as the creature approached him. _Wait_ . . . .

When Voldemort reached for him, put his hands on him, Harry drew the wizard back toward his prone form and slipped into it again, reaching out unsteadily for the leg of the Dementor whose body the Dark Lord inhabited before he could realize that the thing he was attacking was no longer Harry.

And he learned that Dementors could make noise, could scream, as he gripped the creature with all the strength he had left and watched the body turn to stone and crumble, just as Professor Quirrel's had done years ago.

Voldemort's true 'voice' was a searing scream against the edges of his consciousness, but Harry repelled him, held his mind still, trapping him in his borrowed body until the Dementor disintegrated completely, and the Dark Lord's screaming stopped forever.

The ground shook, but not because of Tom Riddle's passing.

"Hogwarts," Harry choked out, becoming aware of the pain in his body.

He wanted to revel in it; it was his pain after all, but all he felt was dread. "Have to . . . help. Have to get to . . . castle," he said, whimpering as the force of his pain washed over him. "Oh, I'm—" _broken, bleeding, can't move. Oh, it hurts. Oh_ — " _God_."

"Not quite, Potter," Severus Snape said then, "but you'll no doubt have plenty more worshipers soon enough."

Harry felt the Potions master's hands moving over him, assessing his injuries, and, too tired to do anything else, he allowed the threatening darkness to claim him.


	8. That Killing Place in His Mind

The light hurt his eyes when he attempted to open them again, so he stopped trying. The absence of pain was interesting. _Am I dead, then_? _No. If I were dead, the light wouldn't bother me, would it_? "Wha—" Harry said, as he realized he could not move.

"There now, don't fret. Magical traction, m'dear, and it'll be like that until your legs, your collarbone, your left arm, and seven of your ribs knit themselves. Stay still," an elderly, feminine, kindly voice said.

The wizard felt so weary it was like weight-lifting, or so he imagined, to lift his eyelids. He looked out of his left eye and focused on a gray-haired, pleasant-faced woman who exuded an air of calm. "Good trick," he said, as the reverberations of another explosion shook the building. "Isn't it over? I killed him."

"And we're all quite proud of you for that, Harry," the lady said, "but no one's told the other Death Eaters that, I think."

"Fighting?"

"Yes, dear, a great deal of it up at Hogwarts. Severus heard from the Headmaster yesterday that—"

"Yesterday? How long have I—"

"Oh, you've been sleeping for almost twenty-two hours, dear. It's almost dawn."

"Are we safe? And who's that crying?"

"We're safe enough, I suppose. The Aurors warded the inn before leaving us. And you're hearing Rosmerta's little angels. They're doing well, as is their mother, all things considered. Nine months to the day, they were born, but then, Severus' children would be punctual, wouldn't they be?"

Harry tried to laugh, but ended up coughing until he choked.

"They have little caps of blue-black hair and their father's eyes, but their _mother's_ nose," the witch continued. "Oh, dear. Are you all right?" she asked, as Harry's coughing grew worse.

"You . . . you said . . . 'mother's' so . . . em—emphatically."

The woman chuckled. "So I did. He's a striking man in his way, but it's for the best that the little dears favor their mother in some respects."

"Are they named, yet?"

"Why yes, dear: Vittoria Alessa and Venitia Alisa Snape."

 _Those don't sound very British_ , Harry thought, trying to clear his head. _But they_ do _sound complicated, don't they_? _I'll bet they mean something_.

"They're lovely names, really. Severus wanted to acknowledge his Italian ancestry. Vittoria Alessa means 'victorious defender', and Venitia Alisa means 'merciful counselor'. Oh! and I'm Tabby Kiernan. I haven't any idea if my name means anything, but I'm the local medi-witch. You've probably gathered that, though, haven't you?"

 _No pressure to live up to_ those _names, is there_? Harry thought before saying, "You're like Madam Pomfrey."

"Am I? Well, that's a lovely compli—oh, dear. I do wish they'd get on with it," Medi-witch Kiernan said, as another explosion occurred. "The babies—Harry, I need to leave you for a bit. Try to rest, all right?" she said, rising to leave the room after giving his hand a squeeze.

"Wait—please. Where's Professor Snape?"

"Oh, well, he's been up at the castle since bringing you here. I'm afraid I can't tell you more than that, dear. Rest. I'll be back."

When the witch had shut the door, Harry thought, _He's dead. Voldemort's dead. I killed him_.

It was difficult for him to accept. More difficult, however, was the thought that he was lying useless in Hogsmeade when Hogwarts needed him.

"My friends, Blaise, the school—I've got to get out of here," he said, groaning in frustration. "I wish I could move. I wish I weren't broken!"

The air snapped around him, and he realized that he was free from restraint. He surprised himself by sitting up. "But . . . how?" he asked, wiggling his toes and then moving his legs. 

Harry swung himself into a sitting position with ease, and then slipped off the high bed to the floor. When he decided his legs would hold him, he padded across the floor to the window, which was occluded by a colorful shimmering. 

"Warded, no doubt. I wish I could see."

He was not as surprised by the window clearing as he had been to find himself healed. Looking down, he saw the blackened and pocked ground, and knew that there had been heavy fighting outside of the Three Broomsticks.

 _But if the Aurors left us, that must mean the town's safe_ , he thought, looking around for his clothing. Finding it, he dressed quickly, his mind spinning. _I don't know any healing charms. I wonder . . . yeah, Voldemort could regenerate himself, sort of. I'll bet I picked up that power from him_. "But it probably won't last, will it?"

Hermione had told him ages ago that when wizards shared magic, their residual abilities weakened after severing the bond.

"And I definitely managed that," he said, leaning his head against the door. _Nothing. I wonder if anyone would try to stop me if I left_?

The question made him laugh. "Right. I just killed Voldemort. No one's going to stop me. But . . . but how did I do it? and what can I do, on my own, that won't go away?"

It was clear to Harry that it was his mother's magical protection that had finished the Dark Lord, but his ability to enter another's body—no matter that it had probably come to him from Voldemort during his first attempt to kill him—had made it possible to finish Riddle.

"Hermione will like the irony of that," he whispered, trying not to dwell on the possibility that his friend might be dead. _But I don't want to ever switch bodies again_! Shit. _How can I help_? "Right. You're not going to figure it out by standing here, are you?" he told himself, going to the window and opening it.

The ward parted for him with a thought, and the wizard tried to fly again.

"Fuck. It's working!" _I wish I knew how_.

He levitated himself high enough to see Hogwarts and considered his options. _I'm_ not _going to try and float all the way to the school. I wonder if the Astronomy tower's still standing_?

Suddenly, he was standing on it in a cloud of smoke, which he soon realized was caused by the remains of a flaming boulder that had landed near the door onto the tower's roof. And then he heard a gnashing sound. 

Turning slowly, Harry perceived a figure—a winged figure with the head of a woman—crouching over and eating the remains of what he decided had once been a man. "Oh, God," he said before he could prevent himself.

The harpy turned on him almost too fast to see, and the next thing he knew there were bloody teeth in his face and talons ripping through his right shoulder.

" _Incendio_!" he screamed, pushing against one of the creature's breasts and then leaping back as it went up in flames, shrieking worse than a banshee.

The castle shook from another volley of flaming boulders, and Harry was thrown to the stones. He looked up in time to roll away from three descending harpies and could not cast curses fast enough. He destroyed them all, and then shielded his nose by pulling up the hem of his tee shirt as he slumped against the wall.

 _Oh, shit that hurts_ , he thought, trying not to touch his shoulder. _Try_ , he told himself, feeling a painful itchiness as his wound was partially healed. _Right. It's not going to last. I wish I had my invisibility cloak_.

He waited a bit, but his cloak did not arrive.

 _Great_. Pushing himself up, he peered over the wall of the tower and saw a network of flaming vines cris-crossing the stones. _Good for you, Blaise—Neville—I hope that means they're all right_.

A flapping sound distracted him, and he turned to see his cloak fluttering toward him.

"It's about time," he said, throwing it over his head.

There was yelling beyond the door, and it burst open to admit five Aurors to the rooftop just as he finished.

"Tonks! Ready?"

Harry could barely see the others, but he knew Tonks' voice when she answered.

"Right. I'm Macnair. You'll cover me?"

"Yes," the first speaker said. "Towson, Reynolds, and Jackson—don't let her out of your sight. Let's push off," he continued, throwing a leg over his broomstick and then rising into the air.

"I'm only going to get one shot at this," Tonks said, as she and the others followed suit. "Uncle Lucius is mine, hear?"

 _That doesn't sound good_ , he thought, rising himself to follow them.

He did not think about how he was flying this time, but pressed himself forward after Tonks, turning back once at on odd hissing sound. It was enough to see the black form of a death of Dementors rushing toward Hogwarts' defenders, that, and to notice that a Death Eater was also on their trail.

 _They can't stand it near the school, but now that we're far enough away_ —"Look out! Dementors behind you!" he yelled, focusing on the broom of the Death Eater and causing it to yank up straight and dislodge its rider.

The four Aurors surrounding Tonks did not notice the man's fall as they veered away from the woman they were protecting and sped back toward the Dementors. Two of them were seized immediately, and Harry, with Tonks and the Auror in charge, cast curses frantically. They managed to send several of the creatures hurtling toward the ground, but the other Dementors kept coming.

Harry threw off his cloak and yelled, "Come on!" at a knot of the beings closest to him, and they turned toward his location. He flew up and away from the others, hoping to lead all of the Dementors after him, but only some of them followed. Once they were close enough to make his teeth chatter, he dove toward the ground, pulling up at the last moment and moving before the creatures could smash into him. They hit the earth and did not move. He looked up.

"Tonks!" Harry yelled, as one rose underneath of her. Without waiting for her response, he imagined one of the trolls' boulders smashing into the fiend, and then it happened. _It doesn't matter how_ , he thought, scanning the sky. _It only matters that it works_.

"Harry! Where are you?" the Auror called, looking about herself in confusion.

He sped toward her broom and grabbed her waist as he settled in behind her. "Right here. Get me closer to that one," he said, meaning the Dementor that had just seized her superior.

Tonks rushed forward too quickly for Harry to see clearly, but he opened his palm and sent flames arcing across the air which burnt through the Dementor. It was too late to save the male Auror, however, he realized, as Tonks let loose a string of profanity, some of which he had never heard.

"Up! Take us up—fast!"

"Right," she said, and then they were streaking up toward the sun that Harry knew had risen, but could not see for the smoke.

When they passed above it, Tonks leveled her broom and looked over her shoulder. "Since when can you fly like Supermale?"

"Um, you mean Super _man_ , and not that long. Look, I'm sorry about your—"

"No time for that, Harry. I've got to stop Malfoy. He's controlling the—"

"Attack. I heard. Let's go."

"DAMN IT!"

"What?"

"He's around front in some sort of warded shelter. Reynolds was going to breach—"

"I can do it," Harry said decisively.

"What?"

"I can breach the ward. You can kill them."

"You can—"

"Tonks!"

"Right. Of course you can. Hold on, Supermale," she told him, diving recklessly toward the ground and dodging another flurry of boulders as she did.

Harry almost lost his grip as she bent them into a turning maneuver, and then he saw the magical barrier. Lucius Malfoy stood in its center, two other masked Death Eaters on either side of him.

"Ready?" she yelled, never slowing.

"Yes," Harry called back, focusing his will on the section of the ward just in front of Malfoy.

He paid no attention to the encircling cave trolls.

The barrier burnt away wide but incompletely as Tonks approached it, full speed, casting Avada Kedavra with a vengeance. It happened too quickly for Harry to realize that the Auror was not bothering to adjust her speed. As the Death Eaters dropped, he and she went flying into the bubble of magic and slammed into its other side.

The last thing Harry heard before he lost consciousness was Tonks' exultant war whoop ending abruptly with a sickening snap.

When he awoke, he felt a rough grip on his left ankle. He was being dragged toward the Forbidden Forest by a cave troll. _Crap. Ow. Ow_ —"fuck!" he yelled, boring into the troll's back with his mind.

It split open like the "meat" of a roasted potato being forced out of its jacket, and Harry rolled away with a yelp as the insides of the troll showered the ground, the two halves of its massive body following.

 _Stench_! _God_ , he thought, picking himself up off of the ground. "Tonks!" he yelled, remembering.

It did not take him long to retrace the path of the troll. The ward was flickering, but still active—with not a troll in sight—as he rounded it and ran inside. He stopped short to see the Auror's body bent over itself—backward—her lifeless eyes, one blue, one black, gazing up at nothing.

Her hair was white.

"NO!" he shrieked, rushing to gather the woman into his arms. "Tonks! _Tonks_ , wake up! Please, Tonks—Nymphadora! You know you hate being called that—wake up and tell me to shut it! Oh, Nymphadora, _please_. We— _you_ killed them—you're not supposed to die. That's _not_ how it works, not how it works, not how—"

"Harry," a masculine voice said steadily, as the boy felt large warm hands fall on his shoulders.

"Remus, please—she's _not_ dead. She _stopped_ them. She's not—you have to _help_ her!"

Lupin knelt behind Harry and wrapped his arms around him, gradually pulling him into an embrace and away from Tonks' body. "I'm so sorry, Harry. Come away now. There's nothing we can do for her now. Come on, Harry. That's right."

Harry turned and threw his arms around the man, sobbing hysterically. It was all too much, but it was real. The surreal quality of the past several hours had been ripped away, and all he felt was pain and fear and confusion.

"I killed her, but I didn't mean—"

"No!" Lupin exclaimed, almost angrily. "You _didn't_ kill her, Harry. You and she _saved_ more people than you'll ever know. She was brave, she knew her job, and she died well. But _not_ because of you, never because of _you_ ," he said fiercely, rocking Harry against himself.

"No, _no_ , Remus!"

"I'm sorry. I . . . I'm truly sor—ry," the man said brokenly.

"I . . . I didn't . . . I was only trying . . . to _help_."

"And you did help. You did. Your . . . parents would be so proud of you if they—I _know_ they can see—I know they know what you've done. It was well done, Harry. Truly."

 _Wet_ , the boy thought, feeling Remus' tears. _Why are you crying_? he wanted to ask, but found that he could not.

And then another voice spoke clearly through the chaos.

"Indeed. Your actions were worthy, Mr. Potter. Without you, Auror Tonks could not have completed her mission. It _was_ well done. It was . . . proof enough that you _are_ your father's son," Snape said, coming to crouch next to Remus and Harry and laying a hand on the boy's back.

"Prof—Professor Snape, I—"

"You are needed, Harry. There is a horror of harpies feasting on our dead in the Quidditch pitch, and I mean to stop them. Will you help me?" he asked calmly.

"He's had a shock. He's done enough, Severus!"

"Do you wish the boy to succumb _to_ shock, Lupin? And yourself?"

Remus stiffened. "You're . . . you're right. He's right, Harry. We can't allow those creatures to—"

"Let's go," Harry replied, collecting himself and standing quickly before almost running in the direction of the Quidditch pitch.

" _That_ was well done," he heard Remus say, his voice sounding as if it was choked by unshed tears. "You . . . you _might_ make a decent father after all, Severus."

But as the increasingly familiar cold space in his mind that he had set aside for killing spread through it to freeze all unnecessary thought, Harry found himself not understanding just what Snape meant when he answered, "I am sorry for your loss, Lupin. She was a— _Avada Kedavra_!"

The cries of a dying harpy echoed in the distance, and Harry thought only of killing.


	9. That Last Lesson

The sun was beginning to set when Harry, Remus, and Severus ended their efforts to beat back the remaining creatures from Hogwarts' grounds. They had been joined by several Aurors, professors, students, and citizens of Hogsmeade. At last, the fighting stopped, the wards were strengthened, and the weary battlers turned their gazes upon the castle, or what was left of it.

"God," Remus said, viewing the partial destruction. "That looks as awful as it would to Muggle tourists, doesn't it?"

"The Ministry'll have its work cut out for it Obliviating anyone who's been close to it. Wards or no, people had to have heard the commotion," Harry heard a witch he did not know reply.

"Mr. Potter, are you well?"

 _Snape's talking to you_ , he told himself. _You should answer_.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry looked about himself and felt nothing to see the bloody and broken bodies strewn everywhere. _This is war. This is death. This is—_

"Harry, look at me," Snape said firmly.

The boy looked up, blinking; he felt as though he were waking up from a nightmare or just turning away from a horrible film on the telly, and he wanted nothing more than to find the plug and blank everything out, make everything quiet.

"You are not dreaming, boy," the man said gently. "Have you been injured?"

"No. Sir."

"Good. Come, we should regroup with the others and find a safe path into the castle."

"No."

"You needn't remain here."

"I . . . I'm afraid to go back. I don't want to—"

"HARRY!" two voices called loudly across the grass.

As he turned, Ron and Hermione rushed up and grabbed him into a hug. "I—"

"You did it, mate! I knew you would!"

"Oh, Harry, you're all right!" Hermione exclaimed, kissing his cheek and then pulling away to wipe the blood from her mouth. " _Scourgify_!" she cast, first on her friends, and then on herself, before looking Harry over and casting a warming charm on him for good measure. "Ron, let's get him inside," she ordered crisply.

The witch's charm made things feel normal again to Harry, and he gently shook them off. "No, wait. Remus," he said, looking over at the wizard, who was walking slowly away from the others.

"Mr. Potter, go with your friends. I shall look after Lupin."

"Thank you, Sir. Oh, and I never said, but congratulations."

"What?" Hermione asked.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter."

"What'd you mean by that? Winning?" Ron asked.

"No. Um, no."

"Can't you say?"

"I don't kn—Blaise! Is she—"

"She took a knock in the head, but she's fine," Ron assured him. "What's up with Sna—"

Suddenly, it hit him: _Tonks_. Harry's knees buckled, but his friends kept him standing.

"Right. Into the castle with you," Hermione told him.

"No. Tonks. Tonks is . . . Tonks is dead."

"Wh—what?" Hermione asked. "Oh, _how_?"

"Remus loved her."

Ron cleared his throat. "Hermione, I think maybe I should go after them. Snape's not the comforting sort."

"Yes. Go."

Hermione and Harry sank down into the grass, the witch glaring as a well-wisher attempting to approach, and then the others milling about in confusion began to drift back toward Hogwarts.

"Take a minute. We can go back when you're ready."

"I don't . . . know that I'll ever be ready."

"It was a great shock, you know, for all of us when the castle was attacked. When Ron, Neville, and I couldn't find you, we—"

"Neville. Shit. I never—"

"Don't worry about that. He's sorry. It was stupid, but he was just trying to help."

"I don't understand. Dobby—"

Hermione sighed. "I should have stopped them."

"I really don't understand," Harry said, more crossly.

"Neville, Dobby, Dean, Millicent, and Ginny—they made you think that—"

"That was a joke? Nev's been in the Infirmary for two weeks because he was playing a prank?"

"Well, he actually wanted to study for N.E.W.T.s in peace and quiet, and also to push you together with Zabini. He didn't mean—"

"And you _knew_?" Harry demanded, standing up, albeit a little shakily.

"Not right away, and by the time I did know, you were gone, so I couldn't tell you. Where did you go, anyway?"

"When?" the boy demanded angrily, though he was not sure that he was truly mad at Hermione, or if he was just furious in general. "This is STUPID! Stupid, bloody, sodding _ridiculous_! This _isn't_ the way it's supposed to happen!"

"There is no correct way for war to end, save in pain and blood and death," Albus Dumbledore said from behind the two Seventh Years.

"She's dead. She killed them and she's dead. Look at this," Harry demanded, sweeping his arm out to indicate the bodies lying about them. "This . . . this is . . . this is," he stopped, not knowing what it was, or why he was yelling.

"Harry," Hermione said, rising and attempting to touch him.

"No. I don't . . . I want . . . never . . . ."

"Miss Granger, would you be good enough to—"

"Yes, of course," she said, moving a little away to give the wizards their privacy.

Dumbledore approached Harry and stared at him until he focused on the wizard. It took some time, as the boy was trembling and finding it difficult to concentrate.

"When I defeated Grindelwald, it was nothing like this," Albus said, holding out a hand as if to steady Harry, but he swayed out of reach. "He had been my teacher, my mentor some years before his sanity left him. I knew him, you see, so when it became apparent that his madness could only be stopped by death, it was surprisingly easy to get close to him. Oh, I was never in his head, but I knew his habits, his routine."

"How did that help?"

"He thought that working with the Muggles to win their war would shield him as he set about waging his own, but Grindelwald was a creature of habit. Despite his wards, despite his guards, despite himself, he could not deviate from the pattern of his life. Because I had once been a part of it, I merely insinuated myself into his routine again. He never saw his death coming. He only knew it was time for his evening nightcap. . . . Do you remember what Binns taught you about Grindelwald's defeat?"

"He died in battle . . . against you."

"Yes, that is what is taught. It makes a better story," the older wizard said, his features grim.

"What . . . what really happened?"

"Everything you learnt is true. There was a battle. People did die, and horribly, too. But Grindelwald did not fall in the field. Grindelwald suffocated in his own bath after drinking a Scotch laced with a magical poison, and his servants dragged him from it, clothed him, and brought him to the fighting where they found me. The rest is, as they say, history—but a romanticized version of it spun by the Ministry to give that war an 'appropriate' ending."

"Appropriate? It wasn't enough that you killed him?"

"Obviously not, dear boy. You, having made history, having seen that it is not a story, but life playing itself out, know that wars end in death. That they are not clean. That nothing about them is good."

"Isn't it good that Voldemort's gone?"

"Indeed, it is, but would it not have been better if Tom Riddle had not been able to call to him the most frightened, the greediest, the weakest members of society and waged this war with them to begin with? I'm afraid that the forces at work in our world are not so pure. Grindelwald was supposed to be the last dark wizard. I knew when I killed him, when I saw his servants seeking to preserve his legacy, his myth, that there would be another."

"What are you saying? That what I did was . . . was for nothing?"

"Not at all. What I am saying is that you did what you had to, and you know that it was not a story. Tom Riddle was an evil, well-educated man without any self-control. He tortured and killed people because he could, not because it was right, and he will not be the last to do such things. You stopped him. You did what was right. You are a good and brave man, and I am very proud to have known you. What I am telling you is that there is no appropriate end to war, and that though now you are feeling shocked by what you have done, that feeling will pass. I do not know what it is you were expecting, Harry. I can only tell you what I was not. I was not expecting to see people dragging Grindelwald out into the battle to insure his legacy. It was . . . painful to note how desperate people can be for a 'proper' story."

"I . . . I think I understand," Harry said, feeling bone weary and somewhat calmer. "Are you telling me that—no, wait. I don't understand at all, Albus—oh, I mean, Sir."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Albus is fine, Harry. They, your adoring public, will cast you even more firmly in the role of hero, now that you have defeated Riddle. They will make of your victory a story, and you will hear it and hate it. You will hear it, and want to disabuse the tellers of their inaccuracies. What I'm telling you is that you are Harry James Potter, a seventeen-year-old wizard of great power, who did what no young man should have to do, and you did it because it was right. Do not forget that. No matter what you hear in the coming days, months, years, do not forget what happened. This," Albus said, sweeping his gaze over the dead, "is war. And it is ugly, but it is over, for now. There will be another hero, another villain, another war, in time. But this is your war, your life. It is always an unexpected thing, life, but remember your deeds, and those of others, and try not to let the stories bother you."

"I want to tell people about what she did. People should know that story."

"Yes, they should. They should not, however, know this, this death. It doesn't actually help people to see it. It merely horrifies them. That is why we have stories. Your story is one of bravery and sacrifice, and knowing that will help people to be strong in the face of evil. Though it will disgust you to see the tale mangled beyond recognition, hearing it, telling it, will give others courage. People need their heroes. You need the truth, and eventually, you shall need to learn to live with the simplicity of it. You did what was right because you could. You faced evil, you defeated it, and it was ugly—it did not end the way you imagined it would. But end it did, Harry, and you are to be commended for it."

"It wasn't just me, Sir."

"No, it was not."

"I . . . I want to see Mrs. Tonks."

"Of course."

"Let me . . . I need to tell Hermione."

Harry walked over to where Hermione was waiting with a medi-wizard. The man reached out his hand, and the boy took it.

"Thank the gods for you, Harry Potter," he said fervently.

Harry just nodded.

"Thank you, Medi-wizard Ambrose," Hermione said. "You might want to see to yourself, too."

"Oh, of course. I'll do that. And I'll tell my children I met you, Sir. They'll be so proud," the man said, hurrying off.

"You're going to tell the Tonkses about their daughter, aren't you?"

"How did you know that?"

"It's the right thing to do, isn't it?"

Hermione was surprised when Harry grabbed her and pulled her close, but she held him just as tightly.

"I'm sure Neville's sorry, Harry."

He barked out a laugh. "It's all right. Just a prank. Please, tell Blaise that I'll—"

"I will. I promise. I'll see you when you get back," Hermione told him, walking back to the castle.

When Harry turned around, Albus was gone. "What? Albus?"

"We can't all be phoenixes, Harry," the Headmaster's voice said near his ear. "We each of us come to the end of our stories."

"Oh, oh, God. Albus. You're—"

"So very proud of you, dear boy. So very proud."

"Thank you, Sir," Harry said, feeling the other wizard's presence fade slowly.

He knew that he would always be grateful to the man for sparing him the shock of his loss.


	10. That Sense of Normalcy

The next several days went by in a blur for Harry. He had left the Tonks' feeling wakeful, for Andromeda had seen how exhausted he was and put him directly to bed. When he had awoken, the lady had given him breakfast, and they had talked of Nymphadora and Sirius. It had been sad, but Harry was gratified to have more memories of his godfather and his friend. He had not been sure what to expect when he returned to Hogwarts. The the reporters, prayer vigils, and protesters that were milling around the grounds had been a surprise. The Aurors and Ministry officials had not been.

Hagrid had met him at the gate, thrown his invisibility cloak over him, and taken Harry directly to Minerva McGonagall, who had already been named Headmistress. She had greeted him warmly, telling him, "You're a sight for sore eyes," before startling him by enfolding him in her arms. They had talked for hours. Harry could not remember about what.

And then he woke up in the Infirmary with no memory of having been taken there to absolute silence.

 _Must be a charm_ , he thought, sitting up. "Hello?" he called to the closed curtains.

They swung open almost immediately. "Oh, Harry! I'm glad you're awake, dear. I'm having quite a time keeping those Ministry pillocks out of the ward!"

"Ministry . . . officials? What do they want with me?"

The witch made an impatient cluck and said, "They seem to think you're required to give them details. I've told them to bugger off, of course."

Harry smiled to hear the nurse use coarse language. "Thanks. Where are my glasses?"

"On the table, dear. And your clothes are on the chair. You dress yourself and come into my office. We've a few things to discuss before I can release you."

"Um, okay."

Madam Pomfrey offered him cookies and tea when he entered her office, and he ate the entire platter and drank the entire pot before she spoke.

"Good. You need feeding up. Now then, you're perfectly healthy, but you do need to rest for the next _several_ weeks. I don't want you gallivanting about to Ministry functions and awards ceremonies and funerals."

"Funerals. Oh. Who died? I mean, besides the Headmaster and Tonks?" he asked, feeling more heavy than sad.

"There's a list, Harry. I've brought you a copy of it," Pomfrey said, handing him a scroll. "There was fighting here, in Hogsmeade, at the Ministry, and near and in Riddle House, which is where He Who Must—the Dark Lord was keeping himself, apparently."

"P—Percy Weasley?"

"Died at the Ministry," the nurse said through pursed lips.

Harry was relieved that he did not know most of the names, but felt guilty about feeling that way. "Who's in charge of the Order now?"

"Arthur Weasley and Professor Snape, dear. They've both been to see me. They say you're not obligated to speak to anyone at the Ministry if you don't want to."

"Oh. Good."

"Oh, yes. Classes don't begin until next week. We're extending the term two weeks. Hogwarts was badly damaged, but repairs are underway. Your friends Ron and Hermione are at the Burrow. You've been invited to stay there. Would you like to go now?"

"Where's Blaise Zabini?"

"Ah," she replied, smiling. "I thought you might be asking about that young lady. "Blaise is here. The Slytherin portion of the castle was undamaged. Perhaps I should call her for you. She'll want to show you which parts of the castle are off-limits until the repairs are concluded."

"Yes, please."

Before the witch could get to her hearth, a voice called from the door, "Madam Pomfrey, is Harry awake, yet?"

"Come in, dear."

"Harry!"

He flushed. "Hi," he said, and was pleased when the girl rushed to him and hugged him.

"I'm sorry, is this not okay?" Blaise asked when Harry stiffened.

"No, it's fine, really."

"I'll just check on some patients, my dears."

"Blaise," Harry breathed against the girl's neck. "I'm, I was, you're all right."

"I'm glad you're fine, too," she said, squeezing him back. "No one knows."

Harry pulled a little away. "About what? And how's your head?"

"Oh, that. I was struck by a chunk of stone during an explosion. I'm fine. No one knows about Pettigrew—his name isn't even on the official list of the dead," Blaise said, looking chastened.

"You did what you thought you had to do. It's all right."

"You're not mad? You didn't want me to do it. I . . . I didn't really hear that until after."

"I'm not mad," he assured her, brushing his lips against her forehead. "I was just worried about you. Have you told anyone about the torc?"

"No. I didn't think it would be a good idea. I suppose I'll just have to avoid dead bodies in future."

Harry chuckled. "I'm for that, as well, but you know . . . this is weird."

"What? Kissing me?"

"No, and we haven't had much of that, have we?"

"No."

"I'd like one, you know."

"So would I, but I expect there are things you want to do, first. I'm to tell you that you're to contact the Burrow at once."

"I will. It's weird that things seem so normal."

"Half the school's been blasted to bits, most of the 'mythical' creatures on the isle are dead or captured, you took Voldemort's body and then destroyed it, I reanimated Death Eaters, the war's over, Auror Tonks, Percy Weasley, and so many others are dead—what's normal about that?"

"I guess it's 'normal' for us, for our lives. I'm glad—that it's over—I just don't know how to act now that it is. And Percy . . . Ron's got to be upset, even though, maybe because of how . . . ."

Blaise ran a hand through Harry's hair and whispered, "Let's go see them."

"You'll come with me?" Harry asked, not quite knowing how to react at his feeling that it was important she do so.

"Of course," she said, giving him a quick peck on his cheek before releasing him. "Normal will work itself out in time, won't it?"

 _It will have to_.

No one was surprised to see Blaise arrive with Harry, and both were made as welcome as any member of the Weasley family. No one pressed Harry for details, and they sat in the kitchen and talked sadly about the good things they remembered about Percy. It felt strange, but normal, too—like family.

"Well," Mr. Weasley said when things had quieted after dinner, "I expect you'll be needing to make room for a third, Ginny."

"Oh, of course," she replied, looking at Blaise.

"That's not—"

"Nonsense!" Molly interrupted the girl. "Any friend of Harry's, isn't that right, Ginny? And you don't need to stay cooped up at Hogwarts when all your friends are here."

"Millicent's here?" Harry asked.

Ginny flushed. "Um, she will be, later. She's making sure her aunt's all right."

"Aunt Laura is the only Bulstrode who didn't follow the Dark Lord," Blaise explained. "She's quite a formidable old lady, but getting on in years. The . . . death of her family, most of it, well, she took it hard."

"Sounds like you know her well."

"She made me feel very welcome after the split with my own family, much as you have done, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley."

"Say nothing about it, dear. We're happy to have you here. Now then, it's late. You children should be getting to bed."

"Mum! Harry just . . . I mean—"

"It's all right, Gin, really. Just because I defeated Voldemort doesn't mean I don't get tired."

"Well, _I'm_ not tired!"

"Good," Hermione said, brightening. "Ron and I were talking earlier about studying for N.E.W.T.s—"

"You were talking about it, you mean," he said grumpily. "I say we're entitled to a break."

"—And I'm sure you must have studying of your own to do, as well," Hermione continued. "Shall we set up here?"

The day of his Potions N.E.W.T., Professor Snape pulled Harry aside before the examination.

"Do you feel prepared for the examination, Mr. Potter?"

"Uh, well . . . ."

"As I suspected. Very well. You will do your best. Should you fail, I would be happy to provide you tutoring over the summer so that you might take it again with the group of students who were too injured to take their N.E.W.T.s today."

"That's very generous of you, Sir."

"Yes. Further, Miss Zabini has asked to see my daughters. I thought you might wish to join her, say, at seven o'clock this evening?"

"Students aren't allowed off grounds that late."

Snape smirked. "I'm pleased to see you remembering that particular rule now, boy."

Harry blushed. _Of course. He knows why Blaise and I were_ —

"Mrs. Snape has taken up residence in the castle. Headmistress McGonagall has been good enough to provide us with chambers . . . above ground."

"I suppose babies do need fresh air, Sir," Harry replied, successfully keeping a straight face.

Snape gave a small nod of his head, and the boy could tell how pleased he was, in general, if not about having to surrender the dungeons.

"Medi-witch Kiernan said that your babies were beautiful. I'd like to meet them."

"And if the children had favored me?"

"Even then, Sir, but even you must be glad that—oh. Um, seven. Sounds great."

"Thank God you have no intention of becoming a diplomat, Potter."

Remus Lupin was present when Harry and Blaise arrived.

"Harry," he said warmly, "it's good to see you."

"Remus, I didn't know that you were at Hogwarts."

"Actually, I'm not. I'm helping Rosmerta mind the pub while she's—"

"'Incapacitated'," the witch called from her position by the fire.

She was cradling one dark-haired infant, and Professor Snape held the other twin. Both parents looked very proud.

"You'll never let me forget that slip, will you?" Snape said in mock irritation.

"I think not. Pregnancy is not a disease, Severus. Come here, Blaise and Harry. I think we could use a break."

Before he knew it, Harry was sitting next to Blaise on the opposite sofa in front of the hearth, and they were each holding a baby.

"So, which of your daughters am I holding," he asked the wizard. "'Victorious Defender' of 'Merciful Counselor'?"

Snape looked impressed. Rosmerta replied, "You have Vittoria. Blaise has Venitia."

"How appropriate," Remus said.

Harry felt like blushing, but he did not. He was growing used to accepting people's praise for his deeds.

"They're so lovely," Blaise murmured.

"Don't go getting any ideas," Snape said, looking alarmed.

Harry _did_ blush then.

"Of course not. How could I marry, get pregnant, and be your apprentice at the same time?"

"At least you have the order partially right," the wizard replied, mollified.

Harry turned to look at his friend. "You're going to be apprenticed to Sn—Professor Snape?"

"Yes. We decided after the results of the exams came in. I like Potions. I think it would be a fine thing to be a Potions mistress."

"I'm sure you'll be the best ever," Harry said emphatically, before realizing his words might be taken wrongly.

"Blaise has the potential to be truly great," Snape said.

"What will you do, Harry?" Rosmerta asked.

"Oh, well, if I pass my Potions N.E.W.T.—"

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter."

"I passed, Sir?" Harry asked, thoroughly surprised.

"Barely."

"Severus! You know that's not true."

Harry laughed. "I passed, that's the important thing. I'm going to join the Auror Corps."

"What, no professional Quidditch for you?" Remus asked.

"Nah, Ron's going to do that, despite Hermione's disapproval. He's determined to make the Chudley Cannons and see to it they win for once."

"And Hermione?" asked Remus. "What will she be doing?"

"Hermione wants to become a spell-craftre."

"So more school for Miss Granger," Snape replied. "I'm not surprised, though I am . . . pleased that you all lived to make these choices," he said quietly.

"Thank you, Sir. We're happy about it, too."

Everyone laughed. Finally, Harry found himself walking Blaise back to her dormitory. The Sytherins who were left at school greeted Harry cordially, some even thanking him for what he had done, and then he was standing before Blaise's bedroom door.

"Never thought I'd be here," he said nervously, his heart beginning to beat faster. _So pretty_ , he thought, tracing one of the braids coiled on Blaise's head.

"You really don't like it when I do up my hair."

"I like it down. I'd like to touch it."

"Would you?" she teased, brushing her body against his almost imperceptibly.

It was enough to make him wish for his robes.

"Yeah."

"I've a hairbrush, you know."

"What?"

"I've a hairbrush. One uses them to—"

"I know what they're for. Are you asking me to . . . brush you hair?"

The thought of being able to touch Blaise like that was almost too erotic to bear.

"Yes, Harry, I am," she replied, pressing against him a little more firmly. "I want to ask you to do other things, too, but I suppose I should give you one question at a time."

"You can give me anything you want to," Harry managed to say, as he ran his hands lightly up and down the girl's back.

Blaise grinned. "Well then, it's good that exams are over, isn't it?" she asked, before moving to kiss him.

Without having to worry about any interference, kissing Blaise felt like a miracle. Harry groaned into her mouth and slid his tongue along hers, jumping a bit when she playfully sucked it. It made something else entirely throb with need.

"B—Blaise . . . I—"

"Want to brush my hair. Yes," she replied huskily, "I _know_. Come in."

Harry had never moved faster in his life, and unwinding Blaise's hair, running his fingers through it, kissing it, brushing it, was the most amazing thing he had ever felt—until the witch made good on her promise to give him other questions, many in the form of requests, some as demands, but all of them things he found within his power to answer and grant.

They fell asleep in each other's arms, and when he woke up the next morning and looked at the sleeping wonder that was Blaise Zabini, he felt as though he were at last at home.

"Wherever you are," he murmured, kissing her face gently, "that's home."

"Is it?" she asked, opening her eyes at once.

"You weren't sleeping."

She blushed. "No. I was watching you sleep before you woke up."

"Sneaky Slytherin," he said fondly.

"Gorgeous Gryffindor," she replied, pulling him down into a kiss.

Breaking it long moments later, Harry asked, "You think I'm gorgeous?"

"Would I let just anyone brush my hair, Potter?"

"You'd better not, Zabini."

They were late to breakfast, and various commitments kept them from seeing as much of each other as they would have liked, but before their graduation ceremony, Harry found time to bring Blaise to the Owlery.

"Look," he told her, gathering her in his arms and levitating both of them up to the nest Hedwig had made with Silvio. "The eggs have hatched."

Four tiny, fuzzy white chicks slept against Hedwig, while Silvio watched over his brood with evident pride.

"I'd like to have children some day," Blaise whispered.

"With me?"

"No. I quite fancy having them with Remus Lupin—of course, with you!"

Hedwig rustled her feathers in annoyance.

"Well, Lupin _is_ rather handsome . . . ."

Blaise snorted.

"You sound like Snape when you do that."

"Severus has his . . . qualities, too."

" _What_?"

"I _am_ teasing you, you great jealous pillock!"

Harry lowered the both of them to the floor. "I'll show you what kind of pillock I am," he said, mock threateningly, smiling broadly at the girl.

Blaise shrieked out a startled laugh as he grabbed her, and soon they were chasing each other through the air—Harry flying by himself, and Blaise under the power of her own wings. All in all, it was a perfectly normal evening for the Gryffindor and Slytherin, and it ended happily with hair-brushing and soft words.

"I'd like to have children, too," Harry whispered.

"With Remus Lupin?" Blaise teased, snuggling into his body.

It was a simple thing, her teasing, and it made Harry feel more loved than he had ever been. _Loved. Love. I_ do _love you_ , he thought, letting go of some of the pain he had felt since killing Voldemort. _I have loved you for a long time_. Taking a deep breath, he said, "No, with hair as glorious as yours," and then tensed for fear his admission was too much, too soon.

"Oh, _Harry_ ," Blaise whispered. "Harry, I love you, as well."

"Trust a Slytherin to understand subtext," he replied, rolling over to kiss his girlfriend goodnight.

"That's a big word for a Gryffindor," she teased.

To celebrate their first Christmas as man and wife some years later, Harry presented Blaise with a silver-handled hairbrush with green bristles with the word "subtext" inscribed on the handle. They never explained what this meant to their children, but then, Dora, Sirius, Brian, Arthur, and Merva never asked. They knew well enough what it meant when Mummy and Daddy started talking about it being "hair-brushing time," and they often wished they had normal parents. 

But the Zabini-Potter children loved to hear their parents' stories.


End file.
